And Where I am Going, Everything Goes
by Bottle of Smoke
Summary: *COMPLETE* Six years after the train crash, Lucy is sent back to Earth to help an unbelieving man. But is there more in store for her than she believes?
1. Chapter 1

_Where I come from, nobody knows_

_And where I am going, everything goes._

_The winds blow, the seas flow,_

_Nobody knows._

_And where I am going,_

_Nobody knows._

- "Nobody Knows" from _Portrait of Jennie_

____________

_I wonder what Earth is like now, _Lucy thought.

The thought had occurred to her more than once. It was usually just a passing fancy, a little 'what if' that didn't last long. Now, however, the thought was large and looming in her mind, for she was to return there after being away for so long.

_It must be different now._

Lucy did not choose to go back, but was commanded by Aslan earlier. She thought of her home, her friends and family. Had they grown-up, lived, died, forgotten? Was she just a distant memory to them?

_I wonder how much time has passed. _

Had it been a week since that command, or a day? Lucy didn't know. She had lost track of time since arriving in New Narnia. It never mattered. Now, however, she was going back to a place where time was all that people lived for.

_I wish I knew where I was going_. _I wouldn't be so scared if I knew more_.

She plucked at a piece of grass under her hand. The fields of New Narnia were green, warm, familiar. Aslan had told her little of where she was to go – only to Earth. It could be anywhere – maybe England, maybe South Africa.

_I'm not to stay there, but even coming and going seems intimidating_.

She threw the piece of grass into the field absentmindedly. The mission was the only thing on her mind now. She wasn't going to stay on Earth, just come and go, but Aslan didn't say for how long; just until the job was done.

_And that could take years, for all we know_, Lucy sighed. She wished she at least knew who the man was that she was supposed to help. That would certainly clear things up. But instead, everything was murky, unsure. Aslan said little, only that this was important.

_I shouldn't be worried. But I am. I'm thinking about this too much. It's making the situation far worse than it is. I have nothing to fear – I can't die again, can I? _

Lucy resolved to stop thinking about it. The situation seemed worse and worse the more she thought of it. She got up, dusted herself off, and walked through the field. Tomorrow would be the day – the day she would return to Earth to help a man.

Aslan said this man was an unbeliever, and that Lucy needed to help him. How, she didn't know. She was only advised to be herself. And that there was more on the line than she would think.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.**_**__**** - ****Henry David Thoreau**

_**______________**_

It was Thursday once again.

Thursday, the day George tried to make something of himself.

He woke up to the dark, drab grayness that the sky cast upon London. Autumn is a time of dull colors, of indeterminable feeling. It is not dark and bitter, nor bright and gay. It is, instead, a time of mediocrity. And George Duncan, who felt little of happiness or sadness, was a child of autumn.

George looked out of the window of his flat, watching the people walking on the streets below him. Already bundled up, he realized how cold it was. He wrapped his arms around him, shrugging his shoulders from cold. He walked over to his chest, pulled his clothes out, and dressed.

George was not a rich man – in fact, he was very poor. His tiny, beat-up flat was too expensive for him at times, his meager salary varying. He was a painter, trying to sell something to get him food. He, like many artist, wanted fame, but for now he had to settle with selling a painting. He had had small, temporary jobs here and there, but now he found himself relying on his brush for income once again. And every Thursday George would go out to Maler's Art Gallery and try to sell something to the kind, patient owner, Daniel Maler.

He cupped his hands to his mouth, trying to warm them with his breath. He was without heat at present, saving all of his wood to make his paltry meals. He looked at what food he had: half a loaf of bread, a small hunk of cheese, a jar of marmalade, and a bottle of milk. He sighed, knowing that unless he sold a painting or two today, he'd be very hungry this week, and settled down for his skimpy breakfast.

_That one of the pond should be worth __something_, he thought as he chewed his thin bread. _It's very acceptable. Not epic, but something nice to look at. _

George knew he wasn't a genius – he had been told that many times by his callous art teacher in grammar school. But drawing was the only thing George knew that he was good at; he wasn't smart, wasn't charming, wasn't athletic. He wasn't even good at other artistic fields – just drawing. He could do mindless manual work, but anyone could do that. Art was something few could make.

He finished his little meal and walked over to his tiny wardrobe to pull out his coat and hat. They were thin and gray, offering little warmth and protection against the chill of the wind. He took one last look over the new pictures in his portfolio; the pond in Hendon Park, a gray city scene, and a cluster of leaf-barren, brown trees. They were well-done and accurate. George was satisfied with that conclusion, and snapped the folder closed, the small hope of a meal ticket rising inside of him. He tried to quell it, as he always did, and it soon extinguished. He was just making the rounds, as always.

George closed the door behind him quietly, hoping not to disturb anyone, especially his landlord. The crusty, grumbling middle-aged man could be tolerant…until a boarder was a month behind on rent.

The wind was cold as it hit his face, rubbing his nose raw. George was indifferent towards the weather, though he found the cold to be very unpleasant. It may have been the last week of October, but it was still too cold for this time of the year.

George kept his eyes down on the sidewalk as he made his way to the gallery. People were walking by him, their walks brisk and busy, trying to get to their jobs, to their lives. George envied those men walking around in suits and gold wristwatches. They walked with such purpose, with such determination. Other than this long walk and the occasional run to the grocer's, George never had any reason to go anywhere. He would just walk aimlessly, slowing down the quick beat of pedestrian traffic. The men often got annoyed with his slow amble. He never sped up for them. Why should he comply with them? Those uppity bastards reminded him of his inadequacies just by their gait.

He shook the bitter thoughts from his head as he reached Mr. Maler's gallery. It was a modest sized gallery, but Mr. Maler tried his hardest to sell quality work. George had only sold a few paintings to him. He knew that the gallery owner did not think his work to be the best, but it didn't matter. It only made George more determined to sell something.

The front desk was empty, the secretary absent for the day. George walked in, enjoying the warmth that heated the gallery. Even if his visits didn't always go the way he wanted, the heat the gallery provided almost made up for that.

Mr. Maler was studying a painting in his office when George entered. The two knew each other well enough that George could come into Mr. Maler's office without announcement. It had been going on nearly two years since George first stumbled into the man's gallery, cold and rejected by another ruthless art seller.

The gallery owner was not a native Briton. Like his name suggested, he was German, a refugee of the war. He was a Jew, the target of Nazi rule, but he managed to escape before the war started. He had the bearing of a man who had lived through everything, yet that never seemed to weigh him down. Mr. Maler tried to find the goodness in situations, though he could be very blunt and direct, especially with George's paintings.

"George! Thursday again, I see," Mr. Maler said, clearing his desk. He slipped his glasses back over his ears. "Have you got anything interesting today?" His English, though perfect, was accented heavily.

George shrugged, pulling out his portfolio and setting it on the desk as he sat down. Mr. Maler was one of those people who liked to talk, something George was not fond of; he had never been a good conversationalist.

He waited in restrained anticipation as the middle-aged man looked through his paintings. He hated waiting for the owner's feedback, the suspense stressing him. Mr. Maler's lips were pursed together, his gaze quick. George felt his heart sink. Mr. Maler always had that same look of disinterest whenever he looked at George's paintings.

Mr. Maler closed George's portfolio and folded his hands, the same bland, resigned look on his face as before. George didn't even need to ask – he knew what Mr. Maler was thinking.

"Well, George, what new can I tell you? I've told you what I've thought about your paintings before, and yet you continue to give me the same thing. What's so hard about trying something new?" The old man looked at George not with condescension or pity, but disappointment. He knew that Mr. Maler didn't think the world of him – in fact, Mr. Maler often told George that if he continued to paint the way he did, he would continue to be a mediocre artist. George looked down, his face coloring with awkwardness. He knew that he was wasting the man's time, but he couldn't help it. He, for some reason, hoped that the owner would somehow change his mind and tell him something good. But he knew that was foolish, and he scolded himself for it.

"This is my style, Mr. Maler. You can't ask me to change my style," George lamely said.

The owner sighed and ran a hand through his thin hair. "I'm not asking you to lose your identity, George. I'm asking you to try to develop it. You can't stay like this forever. Every artist – painter, actor, writer, or otherwise – can't stay stagnant. They must try to expand, test their limits and talent. Right now, you can't do anything because you aren't trying. Don't be content with where you are, George. You'll never grow."

George nodded absently. It wasn't that he didn't try. Rather, it was because he couldn't think of what to do. George never had much of an imagination, and what Mr. Maler was asking of him was too much.

_Maybe I'm not meant to be a painter, _George thought. If he didn't have an imagination, how could he be involved in a profession so reliant on it?

Mr. Maler saw George's despairing face, and he rubbed his hands together. He looked briefly over George's paintings again and studied them closer. "You're not horrible, George. But you'll never be something great, even good, if you keep continuing to paint like this." He studied the picture of the pond closer. "This scene, for example: it's very well-painted, but it's not …not special. It's not unique. How do expect to make any type of money if you can't try to be better?"

George looked at the painting, its gray and blue hues flat, dark on the canvas. It was not different or eye-catching – it was like any other painting by any aspiring artist. He sighed, trying not to admit the truth, and nodded passively.

Mr. Maler sighed and straightened his glasses. "Maybe you need to try other styles." He got up from his desk and walked to the door of his office, motioning the painter to follow him.

Mr. Maler stopped in front of a few paintings and prints, many of them bright and fuzzy. George kept his eyes down. "Now, notice these paintings. Have you heard of the abstract movement in New York?"

"Yes," George muttered.

"Well, these artists have been inspired and influenced by those New York artists. Look what they've given me," Mr. Maler motioned to paintings of bright lines and shapes, forming nothing. They swooped and flowed over the canvas. But they were of nothing. George looked at them unfeelingly. He didn't care for the abstract field – in fact, it annoyed him that people made money off paintings that anyone could make.

"I don't see anything, Mr. Maler," George replied, firmly.

Mr. Maler sighed, shaking his head. "No, what was I to expect?" he said under his breath. He gave the unmoving painter a stern look. "I understand that these paintings aren't to your taste, George, but I'm trying to help you. What can I do when, repeatedly, you won't take my help?"

George felt that familiar feeling of guilt creep over him, but he couldn't help that he was unable to feel like those other painters. He couldn't go into his mind, bring out things from his imagination like them. He shook his head, unable to figure out what he should do.

"I'm not giving up on you, George," Mr. Maler said, softly. "I'm just very aggravated with you. You just don't seem to get it."

"All of this," George said, motioning to a print of a painting by Chagall, "is impossible for me to even think of, Mr. Maler. I can't do anything like this."

Mr. Maler pursed his lips once again, absorbing the young man's words. "Maybe I misread you," the man said. "Maybe you are in need not of something new, but a muse."

George had to scoff. That old stand-by, the muse. Like that would help him.

"No, no. Don't laugh. I'm serious. A muse doesn't have to be that old Grecian deity or some pretty girl. It can be a thought, a sight, a feeling. Just something to make you create."

"And what do you suggest?" George asked, his voice still harboring a tinge of bemusement.

"I can't suggest anything, other than to find something that you love, or even just care about." He looked at the dark, disbelieving man in front of him, and smiled. "It's not too hard, if you look."

George nodded. He nodded usually to stop conversations he didn't like.

The owner patted the quiet man on the back, hoping for the best. "Try something new, George. That's all I can say." He got George's portfolio from his office and handed it to him. George took it, feeling that he, much like Mr. Maler, hadn't been given anything new.

He walked out of Mr. Maler's office, portfolio full and pockets empty. He kept his eyes down as he walked down the street.

_Muse. That's the help he gives me? What's so new and helpful about that? Muses can't be found on the spot. I sometimes wonder if Mr. Maler knows what he's talking about._

George adjusted the large folder under his arm. Why did he even bother to go to that place, if all he got was the same advice over and over again: _change yourself_? He didn't need lecturing or instructions.

He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. His coat and hat were not doing their job, and left him cold.

_Although, Mr. Maler's the only one who actually takes the time to think about me. No one else seems to, not even Aunt Shannon, _he sighed. _Maybe I should be more grateful._

He got to the end of the street, and stopped, waiting for a car to pass by. The cars rushed by him, honking their horns and throwing leaves at the pedestrians. And, up above, the sky was still the same shade of steely gray, though the sun was fighting to get through.

He crossed the street, lost in his thoughts. He paid no attention to the people rushing by him, bumping into him. He never did pay attention to people, anyway.

He was taken out of his reverie by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Jolted awake as if in a dream, he turned to see who it was.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Sorry for the really long delay! My life seemed to get super busy these past few weeks. I promise, though, that I haven't abandoned this!

__________

The World was not as Lucy had left it.

She blinked her eyes and looked up at the gray sky. The sun was fighting, trying to break through. It was late summer when she died, warm and humid. Now it was cold, windy, and dull. She shivered. She had forgotten what it was like to be cold. It was never cold in New Narnia, always warm and pleasant.

She brought her gaze back down to Earth. She didn't feel her return to Earth. She just closed her eyes as Aslan breathed on her, and found herself back where she started.

She looked down at her clothes, trembling from the cold. They were not the lovely, flowing gowns she wore in New Narnia. They were like her old clothes, short and confining. Her skirt reached to her knees, thin and narrow. She wore a blouse, plain and white. And, on top of it all, was a dull yellow wool coat that reached past her knees.

_I had forgotten how different clothes are on Earth, _Lucy thought, as she examined herself. The clothes were flattering but plain, and the coat somewhat matronly.

People rushed by Lucy as she walked down the street, muttering to themselves and looking down at the sidewalks. She looked at the cars passing by, the buildings rising up to the sky, the lampposts unlit beacons.

_A lamppost…how familiar_.

Lucy smiled as she walked over to a lamppost. She remembered, not so long ago, when she walked into a new world and found a lamppost there, unexpected but not unwanted.

_I've been away from Earth too long. Everything seems so new and exciting…like when I first went into Narnia._

She looked around at the city once again and sighed. She was in wonder of how the buildings, steel and tall and strong, reached up to the sky. She knew those buildings…

She was in London.

_London! Why, can it be real? Am I really back in England? _Lucy looked around her excitedly as the realization became fact. She wasn't in some foreign country, hoping for the best – she was back in England, back in London. And, from the looks of it, near Finchley.

She had to see everything and anything, even though she knew it quite well. She gazed at the people walking by, unknown yet friendly to her. She looked at the buildings and shops. Everything seemed to be welcoming her back.

Lucy turned around and saw herself in a shop window. She smiled brightly, and walked up to it. Her hair was flying out at odd angles, and her face was red from excitement and cold. She tried to warm her cheeks, rubbing them, but they still stayed red. She pocketed her hands, not fond of Earth's coldness, but still happy to be in London.

She turned quickly, without thinking, and ran into a man walking quickly. Or, rather, he ran _through _her. The man moved on, as if he wasn't affected at all. Lucy furrowed her brows. How could he have done such a thing? She was alive again – wasn't she?

Lucy continued to walk on, slowly, wondering why the man didn't react to colliding with her. She was here, wasn't she? Wasn't she a living, breathing person? She clenched her fist, trying to see if she could feel her flesh. She still could, so why couldn't he?

The wonder that she had before was gone. Now, instead, was a feeling of alienation. Was she truly alone here, on Earth? Would no one see or feel or know her?

Lucy stopped in front of a solid brick building, staring at its massive shape. It was hard, secure, motionless. It would not be moved.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and stuck a hand out. She leaned in, hoping that at some point she would feel the rough, cold, textured surface of the bricks.

But she didn't.

Lucy opened her eyes, confused. Her hand was not on the building, but _in _it. She had passed right through the building, as if she were a ghost.

She stared, wide-eyed, at her hand. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be a ghost. She was alive, breathing, living. Aslan wouldn't just send her here to help someone if she couldn't be seen.

Lucy wandered about the sidewalks, aimlessly. Thoughts of worry and anxiety now began to run through her mind. How was she supposed to do this mission? The man she was supposed to help couldn't see her. She was as good as…well, dead.

Dead. The thought hit Lucy hard. She was no longer a part of this place. She was just a meaningless name. This place wasn't for her anymore, but for those living now, in the moment. It was as if she was back at her old grammar school, walking the halls and realizing that no one there knew her, or cared.

Lucy stopped at the end of the sidewalk, waiting for the cars to pass by. She really wasn't even thinking clearly, as the cars stopped, and she still stood there, people walking through her.

"Sorry," someone muttered.

Lucy was instantly brought her out of her reverie. She looked up ahead to see a man walking on. She wondered if it was she that he truly said sorry to, or if it was the woman in black passing by her. Lucy looked down at the ground, trying to think. Instead, she saw a large folder on the ground. It must have been the man's.

_Well, I'll never know unless I try_, Lucy thought, as she scooped up the heavy folder into her arms and sprinted to catch the man. He was tall and thin, his coat old and fluttering in the wind.

Lucy swallowed, hoping that this was the man. She reached out her tiny hand to put on his broad, short shoulder.

And she didn't go through him.

____________

The hand was not large, but small and gentle. He had not felt such a warm, comforting touch in ages that he was not angered by the person's brashness, but was instead curious of who it was and why they wanted him. He turned around and squinted, the sun now shining, bursting from the clouds.

The person was brightly colored, glowing in the midst of the drabness of business suits. George blinked and looked again, to see that it was a young woman, no older than sixteen or seventeen. She had curly blonde hair, a yellow coat, and an expression of desperation.

"I'm sorry sir, but I believe you dropped this," the girl said, pushing his portfolio into him. He felt his stomach drop slightly as he realized that he had dropped it. He reprimanded himself for his absentmindedness. If this girl hadn't have given back his portfolio, he would have been without his paintings – and income.

"Thank you," George muttered, taking the folder and tucking it under his arm. He turned back around, and started to walk again. The girl's footsteps did not fade away, but grew louder. Eventually she caught up with him, much to his dismay.

"What is that?" the girl asked, pointing to his portfolio.

George huffed, wishing that she would leave him alone. "It's a portfolio."

"What's it for?"

"I keep my paintings in it," he begrudgingly said. He didn't like talking to strangers, especially the nosy kind.

"Oh, you're a painter?" she smiled brightly. Her smile was warm, but her crooked teeth were off-balance with her delicate face. "That must be exciting."

"Exciting as it can be," George replied, hoping to end the conversation.

"How long have you been painting?" She was very constant with her questioning, even though George's body language told her to stop.

"Since I graduated secondary school." They were closing in on Hendon Park.

"It must be a fascinating life. I've always wanted to do something artistic or creative or adventurous like that." Her face looked ahead, her eyes glazing over as if in a dream. George stifled a laugh caused by her naïveté.

"I don't think you'd like to live the life of a painter. It's not very easy." He felt himself smile slightly.

"Oh, of course. I suppose it's my romanticism that's making me say that. I've always let my imagination get the better of me." She looked up at the clouds, and sighed softly. They stood outside the park, the wind still whipping at their coats. "Say, how about we get to know each others names. I'm Lucy." She held out the same, slim hand she had grasped him with before.

"George Duncan," he mumbled, observing Lucy. She seemed to be very genuine, her hazel eyes friendly and familiar.

"George…such a good, sensible name. My father's name is George." She took up walking again, as they strolled through Hendon Park. "Although, I must admit, he doesn't look a thing like you."

"Good thing or a bad thing?" George replied off-hand.

"Nothing. My father doesn't look anything like you, that's all," Lucy said, looking above at the trees. Her whole appearance seemed greedy, as if she was taking this all in for the first time and didn't want to miss a thing. "I have three other siblings. Peter's the oldest. Then Susan, Edmund and me. And there's Mother. What about you?"

George bit his lip, wondering about how to respond. This girl was asking a lot about him…was she trying to trick him into something? What did it matter, though? He was just a poor painter, with no real family. "My mother and father died when I was only about a year old. I don't have any siblings," he muttered. He'd rather not think about his lack of family. Even though he had accepted the fact long ago, it still seemed like a fresh wound whenever someone talked carelessly about their family. He wished that he could toss off information like that.

"Oh," Lucy replied, softly. Her face fell as she realized the gravity of his words. She was quiet for a moment.

_Maybe I have finally silenced her. Hopefully she'll give up and go away. I've never had someone so persistent in wanting to talk to me. I wonder if she wants anything from me_, George thought as they continued to walk down the path.

"Do you think I could see your paintings?" Lucy meekly said. She seemed a bit cowed after George's confession.

George was hesitant to answer. He didn't have a problem showing gallery owners, for he knew that it was necessary to show them the paintings if he wanted to get any money. But when other people asked…well, that was an entirely different matter.

"Well, I don't know how much you'd like them," George mumbled, unsure of how to tell her no.

"Oh, I'm sure they're a lot better than you think," Lucy said, an encouraging smile on her face. She took his free wrist and pulled him away, over to an empty park bench. She jerked him forward, her slender size belying the strength it held. "Come now, we're nice and comfortable. I'm sure they'll be wonderful."

George looked down at his feet and bit his lip. He didn't know what to think, only that some strange, golden-haired girl had taken him by the arm and left his inhibitions behind.

His hands, steady yet unsure, untied the portfolio and opened it up, spreading the contents out. Lucy quietly observed them, looking at each picture with silent study. Her face did not betray her emotions, but hid them. George felt that same feeling of nervousness that he got whenever Mr. Maler examined his pictures.

_But that's ridiculous. She's just a girl, someone that doesn't know a thing about painting. Why should I care?_

But his churning stomach showed that, clearly, he _did _care.

Lucy finally finished looking over the last painting, taking a lot longer to get through the lot than Mr. Maler did. Her stoic expression remained unchanged as she looked up at George and gave him a small, tiny smile. "I think you paint wonderfully, George – can I call you George? Or should I call you Mr. Duncan?"

"George is fine," he said. Her little worry brought another diminutive smile to his face.

"Well, anyway, George," she continued "I think you paint wonderfully, but I'm just wondering why you paint landscapes all the time. And why they're all of London."

George felt his stomach sink. _I suppose even mediocrity can't escape uneducated people_.

"I find that my style of painting is best suited for landscapes. I don't like abstract things or portraits and such." He took the portfolio from her and tied it back up.

"Oh," Lucy nodded, looking up at the sky once again. She had a look of someone that didn't belong here, that she was longing for another place. She closed her eyes and began to hum a song. The tune was thin and light, not hard and complex, yet haunting. George found himself captivated by this tune, its sound foreign and new.

"What's that you're humming?"

She turned her head and opened her eyes, the golden gaze a little disquieting. "It's a song I learned when I was younger in…in the countryside." She licked her lips and began to sing:

_Where I come from, nobody knows,_

_And where I am going, everything goes._

_The wind blows, the sea flows,_

_Nobody knows._

_And where I am going,_

_Nobody knows._

Her voice was thin and breathy, not pretty but strangely haunting. George felt spellbound by her, as if this song had a trance over him. Even after she finished the song, the words rang in his mind.

"What was that about?"

The girl smiled simply. "Oh, nothing, It's just a song."

George nodded, though the song still lingered. Where did this girl come from? And where would she go?

"Are you from around London?" George asked.

"Yes. I live in Finchley. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. That song just made me wonder…"

"Where I come from?" she smiled. Her freckled nose wrinkled whenever she smiled.

"Yes." George fumbled with the tie on his portfolio. Everything about this girl was a bundle of mysteries. How old was she? Why wasn't she in school? Was she still in school? George began to look at her closely, trying his hardest not to look suspicious.

"George?"

He was snapped out of his reverie, trying to hide the fact that he was looking at her. He blushed hotly and lowered his eyes. "What?"

She smiled coyly and looked back up at the sky again. "I've been asking you for a while where you lived."

"Oh," George tucked his hands into his pockets, still trying to suppress a blush rising into his cheeks. "I live a few streets from here. I just live by myself."

"Oh, that must be dreadfully lonesome. I don't think I could ever live alone," Lucy said.

"I don't really mind," George shrugged. Truth be told, he preferred living alone over anything else, even marriage.

"Well, whatever makes you happy," Lucy said, standing up. She was a tall youth, slim and athletically built. She was nearly as tall as George was.

"I suppose you must be going along," George sighed, feeling a small amount of sadness. He stifled it.

"Well, yes. But I'll try and find you again. You don't live that far from Finchley, anyway. I really liked meeting you, George," Lucy said, offering a hand to him. He stood, staring at it for a moment, before taking it. It was slender and soft in his grip. "Good-bye, George."

She turned and walked away, not back to Finchley, but farther along the park path, until George could no longer see the speck of yellow on the horizon.

_She was such an odd girl, and yet…she was one of the few people to actually want to talk to me. Maybe she isn't so bad. Just a little weird._

George tucked his portfolio tighter under his arm, and left, turning back to his empty flat. He kept his eyes down, as the sun ducked behind the clouds.


	4. Chapter 4

George softly closed the door to his flat. It wasn't even noon, yet it seemed like an entire day had already passed by.

_Strange, how a few words can change your entire day, _George thought as he looked out the window. The sight was still the same, yet he wasn't looking down at the people – he was looking up at the sky. It wasn't very interesting, as the sun had disappeared, but there was something about it that drew his gaze.

He slipped his coat off and threw it on the couch, tossing his portfolio on top. His stomach rumbled from hunger, but he ignored it. He knew that it was going to be a long week, especially since Mr. Maler didn't pay him anything. But it wasn't his hunger that was on his mind; it was Lucy.

_Lucy. What was her surname? Does it matter? _He thought about the bright girl as he sat down on his bed. She wasn't beautiful; truth be told, she was almost plain. Yet there was something about her presence that made him uneasy and peaceful all at once. She asked him so many questions – more than he wanted. But she seemed to be genuinely interested in him. She acted like he was the only person in the world.

_But what does her flattery matter? She shouldn't be trying to flirt with me – I'm too old and too poor for her. But she wasn't trying to do that, either. It's like she wanted me as a friend. _George scoffed at the thought as he rolled over onto his bed, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling.

_Friend. Why would a young girl like that want to be friends with me? I'm just some grumpy old guy. _

Lucy's kind words and attentive nature, however, couldn't be forgotten. George wondered how someone could be so bright and smiling, so laughing and gay all of the time. Her light hair and lighter smile seemed to illuminate his thoughts.

_I'm developing a strange obsession for her, _George admitted, as he turned in his bed and looked over at the couch. His eyes fell on his portfolio, and he heaved a great sigh. Lucy was gone. Now the thoughts of his behind-payment flat and his empty stomach were dominating his mind.

_I suppose I better go try and find a muse, _George thought as he picked up a piece of paper. He wasn't trying to make a masterpiece, but was rather trying to rid his mind of an image. He sat back down on his bed, thinking hard. He set his pencil to the paper, yet nothing seemed to come. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything. He tried to think of a forest, of a building in London, yet nothing came to mind. He had no idea what to draw, whether it be the same as before or something new. Nothing seemed to spring to mind…except the thought of a golden-haired youth.

_Lucy…well, no pain in trying. I haven't tried a portrait in years, though. Wonder if I'm still any good. _He tried to remember the curve of her face, the smile on her lips, the fall of her hair. Though the details were still sharp, they were beginning to fade as her departure grew farther away. Did she have a snaggle tooth, or were her teeth just crowded? Was her chin pointed or blunt?

George drew quickly and carelessly, as it was only a sketch. His pencil flew at wild angles, trying to get details down, symmetrical or not. He worked in silence, putting all of his energy into the small portrait.

It didn't take long before the picture in front of him bloomed into something very real. It was as he first saw Lucy, her smile unsure yet wide, her face anxious but secure. It was not much, and surely not worth anything, but it was done.

_It's not one of my better works, but maybe if I show it to Mr. Maler, it will shut him up about trying to do something different. At least I'm trying now._

He stood up and left the picture on his bed, as he walked over to his coat to hang it up. The day was still young – what else did he have to do?

_I suppose I could make my monthly call to Aunt Shannon, _George thought, as he rummaged through his pocket. He found barely enough money for a call. _I've been putting it off long enough, although she should know that I never have enough money to make calls in the first place._ His stomach growled in response. _Although, it would be a good time to ask her for some money. She certainly doesn't want me starving and out of a place._

George looked up at his wall at a picture of his staid, matronly aunt. She bore a ridiculously striking resemblance to George, so much so that many people often mistook her for his mother when he was younger. He smirked at the thought, knowing that his aunt firmly and quickly corrected the errant ones.

His eyes then drifted over to the other portrait on the wall, not a photograph but a pencil drawing of a couple. It was larger than the photograph, and obviously made with care. George felt his heart sink a little whenever he looked at that picture. A man and woman were seated on a couch, their faces smiling. They held hands and looked ahead eagerly, as if looking at a loved one. George had based that drawing of a photograph of his, worn and faded from youth when he would stare at it longingly. He had to make the drawing, as the photograph had crumbled and faded away.

George looked into the same, deep-set eyes of his mother and sighed. He never really knew what it was like to see a loving gaze every day…only to see one of indifference.

He shrugged and turned back to his closet to find the roll of canvas and paints stored in the corner.

______________

Lucy sighed as she heard the sounds of her friends and family talking on the distant hill. They had been calling to her for the past few minutes, yet they seemed far off and misplaced. Lucy didn't want to follow their calls, but rather sit in the shade of the tree.

She had felt this way before, and she smiled slightly at the memory. That first time she went into Narnia, when no one believed her, left her isolated, as isolated then as she was now.

_They look so happy over there…I wonder if they can even imagine what it's like back on Earth, _Lucy thought, tucking her knees under her chin.

The memory of her life on Earth was pleasant, something she enjoyed to think about from time to time, yet she preferred New Narnia beyond a doubt. She didn't have a reason why, but it just seemed better. Now she knew why.

Earth now was not the warm, faint memory that she had tucked into her mind. No, Earth was not that at all. It was grim and gray and cold, both London and the people inhabiting it. She had looked around and she saw people for what seemed like the very first time. They walked quickly, their eyes cast down and solitary. They never said hello, but walked on, onto their lives. They didn't take the time to stop and look around – they simply moved forward.

_Is that all I did when I was on Earth – walked on, not stopping and admiring what's all around me? _Lucy closed her eyes again, remembering her visit once again. _Although, after what Earth looks like, I don't blame them. Who would want to live in a place so cold? _Lucy rubbed her arms at the thought.

_It hasn't been long since the accident. The newspapers on the corners all read 1955. Six years after the crash. I would have been…twenty-three. The same age I was when my reign ended. Of course, I'll never know what it's like to be twenty-four,_ she sighed.

She leaned her head back, resting it against the trunk of the tree. A breeze ruffled her hair, tickled her nose. It was a warm, soft, gentle breeze. Not at all like the harsh wind that blew through London.

_I almost don't want to go back. My curiosity was cured, and now I regret it. _She turned on her side, her back to her family. _Of course, am I forgetting why I'm going there in the first place?_

A small smile came to Lucy's face as she thought of George. _George. My, I really must have caught him off-guard that first time, didn't I? He's certainly not the warmest of men. _She remembered that annoyed look that he gave her when she tagged along. It was a lot like the look Edmund would give her when he was feeling particularly priggish.

_But George didn't tell me to leave. Maybe he wanted me to tag along, after all. It certainly wasn't easy talking to him. _Lucy remembered how nervous she was, hoping that he wouldn't dismiss her. She had to take all of the courage she had to keep on talking with him, even after he showed clear disinterest.

_Maybe Aslan kept him listening to me, for his sake. Or, maybe he did just want to listen to me._

Lucy closed her eyes, humming that strange tune. All she could think about was George and how much he wanted to discard her, yet he continued to talk to her. He certainly wasn't warm and inviting, but Lucy found that she wanted to see him again, talk to him.

Lucy tucked these thoughts away, as she saw Edmund walk towards her. Getting up, she brushed her skirt off. New Narnia lay before her, green and golden. The sun gleamed, uninterrupted by clouds. Plants and trees grew lushly, carpeting the hills and fields before her with beauty. She smiled dimly, thanked Aslan for what he had given her, and met up with her brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Winter was ready to come, banging on autumn's door with ferocity. Snow was littering the ground, growing in piles. Mercury in thermometers had sunk low.

It had been three weeks since that day when Mr. Maler suggested that George should get a muse. Three weeks, and George had yet to find one. He had painted only one painting since, and it was an utter disappointment, even to him. George stared sulkily at Mr. Maler as he gazed over his painting with the same, stolid expression as before.

_I shouldn't have come today,_ George thought to himself, as he watched Mr. Maler's eyebrows furrow. _I don't know what possessed me to come, anyway. _His stomach growled, and he then remembered why.

"Hmm…well, not much really has changed, has it George?" Mr. Maler rifled through the painter's works once again, the steady look of disappointment clear on his face.

"No, I guess not. It's just – I can't find anything to inspire me, Mr. Maler," George replied, folding his hands in his lap.

"Have you been trying at all, George?" the owner asked, lowering his glasses to survey George. He could tell that Mr. Maler was clearly annoyed.

"Yes, Mr. Maler."

Mr. Maler pushed his glasses back on his nose, and began to tie up George's portfolio. "George, I really don't know what to tell you anymore. I think you should just stop –"

A small, thin piece of paper slipped out of the folder, halting the owner's advice. Mr. Maler picked it up and stared at it. George looked up, expecting to see his mentor with the same look of dullness. Instead, there seemed to be, to his amazement, a small smile developing at the corner of his lips.

_What in the world could that be? _George thought, shocked to see Mr. Maler so happy over something he had drawn.

"Why didn't you let me see this, George?" the owner asked, delight evident in his voice.

"What is it, sir?"

Mr. Maler turned the paper around, to show George the sketch he had done of Lucy. George stared at it, trying to comprehend that Mr. Maler actually _liked _this quick little drawing. Surely this wasn't one of his better works – it was rough and crude, and not something that would sell for much.

"That sketch? Mr. Maler, it's not something you'd sell at an art gallery. I assumed that you wanted finished works of art."

"I do. But this…this is something different. Something inspired. It's the best thing I've seen from you yet, George." There was clear excitement on the middle-aged man's face, an emotion George had never seen from him. "You do excellent portraits – you should try them more often."

George swallowed, not prepared for this type of praise. He nodded, unable to speak.

"Is this some girl from your imagination, or is she real?" Mr. Maler asked, looking over the details of her face closely.

"Yes, she's real." _Although, as of late she seems to have been a dream._

He hadn't seen Lucy in three weeks, since his last visit to Mr. Maler. She said she was from Finchley, so he surely would have run into her soon or later. Yet, as the weeks passed, George convinced himself that it must have been a chance meeting.

_She probably has forgotten about me,_ George resigned, as Mr. Maler stood up, saying something to him that he didn't hear.

"– so here is what it's worth," Mr. Maler said, handing something to George. The painter was snapped out of his reverie, as the owner's words stopped. "George?"

He turned to Mr. Maler, shocked at what was in front of him. Mr. Maler held out three five-pound notes.

"Mr. Maler…that sketch isn't worth that much," George said.

"Nonsense. It's a fine work of art, and you deserve it. Besides, I heard your stomach growling the entire time you sat there. I think you may need this," he replied frankly. He nudged George, and the painter accepted, stunned that the little sketch he made in a hurry had made him so much money.

"Now, if you keep up the good work, maybe you'll earn something to live off of," Mr. Maler said, retuning to his desk. "Try to do more of that girl. There's something about her that's really interesting."

"Something that you can't really peg down," George replied.

"Yes, that's it," Mr. Maler agreed.

George slipped his portfolio under his arm, still reeling from the shock of receiving so much money. He knew that it was very little, compared to how much he owed in rent, but it certainly was enough for meals for the rest of the week – two, if he stretched it out.

_It's good to have earned something, _George sighed, as he passed by the quiet secretary. Invigorated by his earnings, George walked out of the gallery with his head held high, full of purpose.

He stopped at the end of the street, waiting for the cars to pass by. The sun was glimmering faintly through the clouds. Young people walked by, skates slung over their shoulders and laughing brightly.

"George!"

George stopped, his heart jolted by the sound of that voice. The voice came from pond in front of him, where people were skating. Someone seemed to be coming towards him, waving their arms frantically.

_It couldn't be…_

"George!"

___________

It had been a long time since Lucy had last skated…a _very _long time.

Hence the reason why she was now on her bum, her feet splayed out around her, her hands holding her up.

_Ugh, _Lucy thought, getting to her feet, _arriving back on Earth on skates was _not _what I was expecting_. Her shoes were thrown over her shoulder, like an afterthought. She tossed them over on a bench. She stood up, her feet slipping back and forth beneath her. She steadied them, bending her knees in concentration. Her ankles began to ache slightly under her weight, but she managed to keep her balance. _Half the battle is won. _

She looked around at the people skating around her. They were swirling along, going around in a circle, trying their hardest to go as fast as they could, following the flow of traffic. A few of them passed through her, causing her to jump, then settle down.

_Of course. They can go through me. I'd forgotten that. _She shook it off and tried to start, pushing off with her feet. She was still dressed in the yellow coat, but this time she had gloves on her hands and a scarf wound about her neck, though it did little to keep her warm. She pulled her coat tight about her, trying to combat the shivers attacking her body. It was a lot colder than it had been when she last came.

_I wonder how much time has gone by now, _Lucy thought, as she slowly glided over the ice. She knew that much time had passed, but she didn't know how much. It had only seemed a like a few days in New Narnia. She had almost thought that her mission was over until Aslan had pulled her aside again once more, and told her it was time to go back again.

_And here I am once again, _she noted. Though she didn't exactly dread the visit, she wasn't looking forward to coming back. After the initial shock of being mobile, it didn't seem _too _bad, so far.

_Although, I don't know how I'm going to find George. I don't know where his flat is,_ she pondered as she spun expertly. Lucy had always been a very athletic girl, one of the few things she prided herself on when she was younger. It never took her long to pick things up.

_Maybe I could skate for a little longer, _she thought, as she began to bob and weave through people. She took her time, finding a steady, slow gait. The people around her moved with such intensity their figures blurred into a dull smear.

_I don't know if I could even find him through all of these people. Why would he be at a skating pond, anyway? _Lucy stopped, suddenly losing the will to skate on. She moved over to the edge, wondering where George was. She looked up, and felt her heart skip a beat.

_George. What luck. _"George!" she called wildly, waving her arms around. The dark man stopped, and turned, looking at Lucy curiously from across the street.

"George!" He stared at her. She kept on waving, hoping he'd get the point. "It's me, Lucy!"

The man looked around self-consciously before crossing the street. She smiled brightly as George walked to her, his face red from the cold and embarrassment. Lucy, overjoyed to have found him, grabbed him by the hands and pulled him onto the pond.

"Lucy, what it the –"

"Come on, George!" she laughed and pulled him away, trying to shake him of his self-awareness. She took his hands in hers and swirled about him, laughing and smiling the whole way. George was forced to comply, unable to loosen her grip. He eventually shrugged his shoulders and obeyed, pulling Lucy along as she revolved about him. Lucy saw a small smile play at the man's lips as she twirled around.

Lucy stopped once George dropped his portfolio. They were breathless and smiling, her laughter lighting the air.

"Come on George. Do you have any skates? We could go skating some more – wouldn't that be grand?" She smiled brightly, throwing her coat tighter about her.

"No, I don't," he replied, trying to arrange his pictures better in his portfolio.

"Oh. Well, how about a sit or something then?" she gestured to the bench housing her shoes. She rubbed her arms trying to keep warm as she skated to the edge. How she hated this blasted cold! "It's so terribly cold. I never liked the cold," Lucy chattered, as she sat down to undo her skates.

"Well, then how about a cup of coffee or something? My treat," George offered, pulling out a fiver.

Lucy's eyes lit up. "George, did you sell something?"

"Yes – all thanks to you, I might add," he smiled at her, a lukewarm but heart-felt smile.

"Oh, how did I do that? It's not like I painted something for you," Lucy said, as she tied her shoe.

"No. I sold a sketch of you, if you don't mind. Apparently Mr. Maler, the gallery owner, saw something in that little picture – he wants me to do more of them," he said.

"I hardly think I'm the subject for a fabulous painting, let alone drawing, George," Lucy joked. She wasn't considered a beauty – in fact, many people would often comment on what a shame it was that she had to be so plain when her sister was quite lovely.

"Well, Mr. Maler seems to think so," George replied, standing up and walking. Lucy followed suit.

_Me, a painter's model! I certainly wouldn't have thought of it, _Lucy smiled. She looked up at the sky, the sun having made its way through the clouds.

George stopped in front of a small but well-lit café, and held the door open for Lucy. He led her to a small table in the corner, pulling out her chair for her.

"Very chivalrous of you, George," she noted, sitting down.

"My aunt always taught me to treat girls like ladies," George replied, ordering a coffee for both of them.

"Your aunt?" Lucy wondered. He had never mentioned his aunt before.

George's face changed drastically, from a soft smile to a grimace of indifference and regret. Lucy frowned at the sudden change in his expression.

"My aunt Shannon was my caretaker when I was growing up. She's the only relative I have left. She never got married, and is living off an inheritance she received years ago. She was my father's sister," he explained plainly. He showed no emotion, love or hate, just apathy.

"Oh, I see," she softly said. She knotted her hands, wondering how to reply to something like that. There was no love in his words – just a rattling off of facts.

"I'm not overly fond of my aunt. She was a very…distant woman, to say the least," George concluded, resentment now tingeing his words. He leaned back in his chair, looking out the window. Lucy further knotted her hands, unable to respond. She didn't mean to broach such a delicate subject. Why did her curiosity lead her into such awkward situations?

George shook his head and returned his gaze back to Lucy. He took off his hat, to reveal his dark, ruffled hair. Lucy smiled softly; George's disheveled appearance reminded her so much of Edmund.

"What's that look for?" George asked.

"Nothing. You just remind me of my brother Edmund."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Yes. He's a good man," she replied, thinking back to her funny brother. "He's at university right now," she sighed, feeling that same trickle of envy she had before when she was alive. He had a future to look forward to; she didn't.

"You don't sound too happy about that," George noted, as he took the cups of coffee from the waiter.

"Oh, it's just –" Lucy huffed, the feeling of desperation coming to her again, even though she knew that what had happened on Earth no longer mattered, "Mother and Father don't believe in higher education for women. They would be fine with me being a secretary or teacher or something like that, but I don't want to be something meager like that," she sighed, thinking about those numerous arguments they had over her future. "Truthfully, they'd rather me be married and settled down. Susan's fine with that – she thinks it's unladylike for a woman to be overly-educated – but I'm not. If anything, I'd prefer not to get married." Lucy knew that her views about education and women were somewhat modern, but she couldn't help it. After being a queen, with all of its powers and freedoms, settling down and being a housewife did not have any type of appeal whatsoever. In Narnia, she was Queen Lucy the Valiant, powerful and great. In England, she was just Lucy Pevensie, plain and simple.

"So what do you do, then?" His voice was measured, making sure that he was neutral and unoffending.

"I had a job at a bakery. It was only for a few days a week. Father and Mother seemed to think that it would shut me up about going to university, but it didn't. As far as I saw it, they were just doing this to hold me over until I got married or something." Her voice grew heated, offended. Though Lucy loved her parents deeply, they had argued many times over her future, especially towards the end.

"Had? Does that mean something's happened?"

_Oh no. I must have had a slip of tongue. Drat Lucy, you've got be more careful about these things_, she reprimanded herself. "Oh, no. Must've been a slip of tongue. I still work there – today's my day off."

"Oh," George replied, the explanation enough for him. Lucy sighed inwardly, happy he took the explanation. He took a long sip of coffee, while Lucy just stared at her mug. She had tried to touch it earlier, only to find that it, like the wall, went through her. Luckily, George hadn't been looking.

Lucy looked out the window, the sky a pearly white, glowing from the sun. She wiped her brow, lined with perspiration. The warmth emanating from the heater was inviting, but it was hot, dry. Lucy pulled off her scarf, coat, and gloves.

She looked up and saw George studying her for a moment, like he was memorizing her features. She quickly lowered her gaze, blushing from such attention. "Am I a little strange, George?"

"N-no," he stuttered, being pulled out of his reverie of study. "I-I just…I'm trying to remember your features. For future drawings."

Lucy sighed. "Why are you a painter, George?" The question had been on her mind for some time.

George rubbed the handle of his mug. "It was the only thing I could do decently. I found out I was a good drawer in secondary school, so I continued with it. I developed no other fantastic talents, so I assumed this is what I was meant to be." He said it with a flat, even tone, as if he had said this a thousand times. There was no passion in his voice, only facts.

"You're lucky God gave you such a talent," Lucy said, softly. She had hoped to touch on the subject lightly, knowing that it would be approached sooner or later.

"God? What does God have to do with it?" George spat. He had a look of disgust in his eyes, as if he was expecting something better out of her than to believe in such things. Lucy's cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. She didn't expect him to behave so adversely.

_I guess this is going to be harder than I thought, _Lucy sighed. "I'm sorry. It was presumptuous of me to assume that you believed in God." She looked back out the window, trying to hide her blush. Much as she liked George, there were times when he could be very difficult.

George nodded silently, finishing off his coffee. Lucy knotted her hands once again. _I really must develop more tact_, she reminded herself, as she stared at her full cup of coffee. The sun fell across the table, casting shadows. _Although, he _could _apologize for disrespecting my faith so, _she huffed angrily.

"You don't like your coffee?" George asked, trying to mend the hole in their conversation.

"Oh, no. Just not very thirsty, I suppose," Lucy said, blankly. She could feel that same pull she had before to return back, as if someone was gently tugging on her. It was time. "Well, it's getting late, George. I suppose I ought to go." She stood up, her coat slung over her arm. George stood up and helped her with her coat, gentle and protecting.

_His aunt taught him well, _Lucy thought, as she pulled her coat tightly around her. "Am I going to see you again soon, or will it be another three week wait?" he asked.

"Three weeks?" Lucy sputtered. She didn't know that she was gone that long. No wonder George seemed leery of her at first. He must have forgotten about her.

"Yes – it's the seventeenth of November," George said, giving her a questioning look. Lucy pulled on her gloves, trying to regain her composure. Any more slip-ups like that, and this mission would be over before it even began.

"Oh, yes, of course. Must've lost track of time," she brushed off, breezily. She gave George a quick squeeze of the hand, a gentle good-bye. "Well, good-bye til next time, George."

"Good-bye," he replied, still bearing a mystified look.

She walked out of the café, the sun tucking back into the clouds as snow began to fall. She felt a shiver crawl up her spine as she walked down the streets, looking up at the flakes falling from the sky.

_The more I try to get to know George, the more defensive he gets, _Lucy sighed, as she careened down the streets. _I feel that he'd be a great man if he'd just stop being so defensive. _The tug to return to New Narnia was feeling greater than ever, pulling on her like a magnet. She looked about her one last time, at the dark sky and the towering buildings. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and felt the warmth of a spring sun upon her face.

___________

George sat with Lucy's cup of coffee, trying to finish it off. Though it was cold, he still drank it. He didn't want to waste money on an untouched mug of coffee.

Lucy's visit, though an enjoyable one, left him with more questions than answers about her. Why did she have no sense of time? Why did she turn down a warm mug of coffee when she was clearly cold? And, most of all, why were people staring at him the entire time they were together in the café?

_It's not like we were doing anything immoral; we were just two people enjoying a cup of coffee, _George thought, tracing the lip of his mug with his finger. But they weren't looks of judgment – no, these were looks of inquiry, confused looks. It was like they weren't sure of what was going on about them.

"Done, sir?" the waiter asked, taking George's mug, and pressing a hand on Lucy's.

"Oh, yes," George mumbled, letting the waiter take his mug and give him his bill. He paid the waiter his due, and stumbled out of the shop, jamming his hat on his head. The snow was coming down softly, quietly. There was no wind, just the sound of people walking by, moving along.

_Lucy seems so calm, so peaceful compared to these people, _George sighed, looking around him. The pensive look she had on her face was unlike anything he had ever seen on anyone. It was as if she was longing for somewhere else, but felt bound to the world around her. It was like she didn't belong.

_Maybe she's just lonely, _George sighed, as he thought about his own empty flat. _Although, she doesn't want to get married. She really doesn't seem to belong, does she?_

_And that_, he thought, _was what made her portrait so arresting._


	6. Chapter 6

_I wonder how she can be so bright, _George thought, as he looked at the empty canvas before him. He could see her in his mind, a haze of golden hair and wide smiles. Her lithe figure filled his thoughts, mysterious and lovely and strange. He felt the flow of creativity rush through his body, pushing him ahead. He had never been so motivated to make something in his life.

He looked down at the paints surrounding him. He knew that he would have to buy some new ones. They were all dark, dull colors – nothing that was even close to the brilliance of Lucy.

He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up that face again, but all in vain. She was fading from his memory again, like a dream from nights past.

_Come back again, won't you Lucy? _George pleaded silently. He knew that his thoughts were useless, but he couldn't help but hope that somehow, she'd hear him and come straightaway.

The sounds of people getting ready for the holidays filtered into his flat. It was a couple of days until the start of December, when the noise of merrymakers and carolers would be added. George closed his eyes, weary. He never liked Christmas. When others would be excited about seeing family and friends, George only saw it as few days cooped up with his aunt.

_And it's getting to be that time of year again when she rears her head, _George thought, with a heaving sigh. He would have to visit his aunt on Christmas Eve, as he had always done, for the past ten years. There she would continue to criticize his choice in professions and ask him if he would ever consider doing something else, preferably accountant's work, like his father. _Just another cheerful holiday at Aunt Shannon's_.

He slipped his hand back into his pocket, searching for the money Mr. Maler had given him. He had already spent five pounds to buy food. He didn't want to give up the rest of his money, not when he owed so much in rent…

_Although, Aunt Shannon is sure to catch me up on my rent. She may be dreadful, but she certainly doesn't want me out on the streets, _George sighed, as went to get his coat. He knew that he had many perfectly good paints, but they simply would not do. Not for what he was trying to accomplish.

_________________

"Simply marvelous, George," Mr. Maler said, smiling. He was looking over two of George's new works: one, a painting of the café, bright and warm, and the other a small oil of Lucy, spinning around on skates. The owner was looking deeply, intently, at the works, enjoying every inch of them.

"Are they really that good, Mr. Maler?" George asked, shyly. He was not used to getting such praise, even after the fortnight's sudden payment.

"George, you know I don't give praise lightly," Mr. Maler replied, setting down the paintings on his desk. "There's actually something inspired in these works, like you actually cared for them. Before, well…well, your other works just seemed to be for the sake of money."

George flushed, knowing that Mr. Maler knew him far too well. "I've never been so inspired to do a painting before."

"It shows," Mr. Maler said, beaming at the young painter. "That's all you really needed, George. Something to give you a drive, something that makes you want to paint." Mr. Maler looked over the oil of Lucy, studying it. "Is this the same girl you drew the sketch of?"

"Yes," George answered.

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"Yes."

"She's a very interesting girl. We've all seen pictures with girls in them, but there's just something about her that makes her so fascinating," the owner sighed, his voice and words evident that he too had fallen under Lucy's spell.

"She doesn't belong," George said.

"That's what it is. You look at her, and you expect her to be sitting on a throne, or out on a battlefield, or amongst the clouds. Not here, with commoners," Mr. Maler rhapsodized.

George nodded, silently agreeing.

"George," Mr. Maler started, getting up from his desk, "I want to ask something of you." His voice was calm and gentle, unlike any tone he had ever heard from Mr. Maler. He furrowed his brows, wondering what it would be.

"Yes, Mr. Maler?"

The graying man leaned against his desk, observing the dark man sitting in front of him. "I want you to do a full-sized portrait of this girl."

George sat still, taking the words in. He had contemplated doing a large work of Lucy. Up til then, all of his paintings had been small and informal. But Mr. Maler had never asked him to do a painting, large or small, before. "Any reasons why?"

"Well it's obvious that this girl is your muse, George. And if you do a large inspired work, it could very well set your career in motion."

George felt his heart flutter with happiness, the first time in a long time. "Are you serious, Mr. Maler? Do you really think it could be that good?"

"Your work has improved vastly over just three pieces. I sincerely misjudged you before, George. You're very talented, when you're motivated," Mr. Maler frankly stated. George sat back in his seat, not quite sure of what was happening. The owner smiled. "You are surprised, my friend?"

"Surprised may be an understatement," George replied, breathless and blinking.

"However you feel, I want you to know that you deserve every word of praise that I'm giving you." He crossed his arms, looking down at the excited painter.

"What type of portrait would you like? Something formal, or something casual? Do you want it to be still, or action?" George asked, the questions streaming out of his mind like water slipping through fingers.

"Do what feels right to you, George," Mr. Maler halted, reaching into the front drawer of his desk. He took out a large gray box and pulled out a few notes. "Meanwhile, here's your pay for the two works." He held out 60 pounds. George felt his mouth drop open. "I didn't think you could get anymore shocked," Mr. Maler laughed.

"Mr. Maler, this is – this is unbelievable," George gasped. He took the money with shaking hands.

"It's all your work, George," Mr. Maler said, locking the gray box away.

George pocketed the money, hands still shaking. He never would have guessed that a girl from God-knows-where would have helped him so much.

"Don't let this get to your head now, boy," Mr. Maler said, patting George's shoulder.

"Of course not," he complied. He walked away, taking his portfolio and coat with him. His steps were light, easy, not plodding and heavy like they once were. He felt filled with happiness, light enough that he could walk on air. He passed by the front desk, the secretary unusually late. He looked out the front window, smiling at the falling snow. It was light and airy, certainly not enough to do any damage.

"Sorry, sir," the quiet secretary said, bumping into George as he opened the door. She never said much and kept to herself. George knew very little of her, as he never liked talking to people, strangers or otherwise. But, in light of his new mood, George, for some reason, felt compelled to say something to her.

"Oh it's fine," George said, letting the door close behind him. "Why were you late today?"

The secretary sat down, pulling out her papers and uncovering her typewriter. She sat up and gave George a defensive look. "I woke up late. What's it to you?"

"Just wondering," George said, scanning over the top of her desk. It was bare, with a few pens scattered here and there, and little else. "I don't think we've ever actually talked before."

"Does it really matter?" she replied, annoyed. She pulled out a large black book and began to look through it, marking in pen.

"I was just trying to be nice," George muttered, the lightness he once had deflating rapidly. It was amazing what a few sharp words could do.

The secretary looked up at him, her hazel eyes blinking. She had a stoic look, pensive and thinking. George returned the gaze, hoping that she wouldn't continue with the snide remarks. Finally, she broke her gaze, analyzing him enough. She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Mr. Duncan." She wore a look of shame, realizing her rudeness

"It's fine. You can call me George," he replied, tapping on her desk with his finger.

She gave him a coy look, so odd on her grave face. "I'm Susan," she answered. Laughter tinged her voice. She smiled and blushed, keeping her gaze down. "Are you going to ask me for a date, Mr. – George?"

George felt his face flush. So much for friendliness. "Oh, no. I just wanted to say hello."

"Well, hello," Susan said, the incredulous look still on her face.

"Hello," George replied. "Or rather, good-bye," he said, looking out at the now heavily falling snow. "Must go before the snow gets too bad."

She nodded, as he turned and walked away, his shoulders slumping as he walked through the door. He never liked talking to people, finding it unnecessary and useless. But there was something about her, something that drew George towards her. Something that didn't belong.

_________________

Note: Thank you to my amazing beta crazyelf22 for all of the support and help! And also a BIG thank you to my readers and reviewers. I can't say it enough, but I really do appreciate all of you.


	7. Chapter 7

_I wish George would hurry up and come home, _Lucy thought, shifting back and forth on her legs, trying to keep warm. _It's far too cold out here. _She rubbed her arms madly, her coat doing little to help.

George's flat was in a very drafty, cold building. It was dark and dank, and certainly not soul-cheering. She could see why he was always in such a cross, dour mood: anyone would be if they were living in a place like this.

_Oh, come on George, _she thought, leaning her back against the wall. She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the busy city bustling outside. Such a familiar, yet suddenly foreign, sound.

"Lucy?"

Her eyes snapped open. A warm smile crossed her face as she saw George at the end of the hallway.

"Lucy, what are you doing here?" George said, his voice full of wonder.

"Waiting for you, of course." She had appeared here, outside of his door when she returned to earth.

"How did you find my flat? I never told you where I lived," George asked, astonishment on his face.

"Lucky guess, I suppose," Lucy shrugged off. Something as incredulous as this really couldn't be explained.

George nodded, giving her a strange look. Lucy cast her eyes down, trying not to draw anymore unnecessary attention to herself, as she felt another shiver go up her spine. "Oh, you must be terribly cold. Here, come inside for a bit," George offered, taking his keys out.

His flat wasn't warmer than the building, nor was it inviting. The front room was wide, taking up much of his flat. A stove was tucked away in the right corner, and a bed nestled in the other, near the large windows. Lucy walked over to the windows as George started to load wood into his stove. She looked down below, at the sidewalks full of people. It was near Christmas, as the stores across the street had advertisements in the windows. They were full of warm, glowing light, proclaiming joy and tidings, yet the people walked by, not paying attention to the stores' alluring ads.

"I'm sorry that my flat's not too big," George apologized.

"Oh, there's nothing to apologize for," Lucy called over her shoulder, looking up at the woolly, cloudy sky.

"Would you like something to eat? I don't have much, but at least now I have something adequate," George offered.

"Oh, no. I ate at home," she replied. Lucy had learned by now that food was not something she should attempt to try on earth; it often passed through her.

"Nothing? Are you sure? Can I take your coat?" He was so eager to be a good host.

"Well, maybe not until it gets a little warmer," Lucy smiled softly, turning to him. He nodded, and turned back to the fire, trying to stoke it to life. She looked around at the meager decoration adorning his flat. A large easel was propped up near his bed, waiting for another work to start. Paints were littered around his bed and a roll of canvas was at the foot. It was obviously the flat of an artist.

There were little personal affections, though, outside of a few portraits and keepsakes. A drawing of a couple was hung on a large, bare white wall, their smiles and eager eyes looking out at her. She studied their loving faces, the man's strong, long nose like George's and the women's dark eyes like the artist's. His departed, young parents.

Next to the couple was a very straight-standing, moral looking woman. She was thin and long, with the look of someone who knew what was best, whether you agreed with her or not.

"That's my aunt," George said.

"She's a very…strong looking woman," Lucy noted, walking to George's small sofa. It was made of some cloth resembling brocade, and was tattered around the edges. She sat, and sank lowly into it. She smiled and struggled to sit up, then quit, slumping. George grinned and sat next to her.

"Not a very agreeable couch, I must admit," he said, sitting with skill. "It was a cast-off of my aunt's. She gave this to me when I first moved in here."

"I can see why," Lucy chuckled, grasping at the arm for support, lest she fall further. "How have you been George?"

"Very well, actually," he replied, smiling widely. "Mr. Maler bought two more of my paintings."

"Oh, really George?" Lucy felt the smile on her face grow. She had never seen George so happy before. His smile brought hers out.

"Yes. He's very excited. He's says I might even be great," George said, sheepishly. His dark eyes were looking at the floor.

"Oh, that's wonderful, George!" She patted his knee, happy for him. She felt light and airy, hopeful. Maybe something good was happening, after all.

He flushed slightly, embarrassed at Lucy's warmth. Lucy shook her head, smiling at George's boyish bashfulness. She turned her gaze, looking about at the rest of the flat, and noticing that the residence was missing something…

"George," she asked, "have you not put up your tree?"

George's shy smile disappeared, now replaced with a thin, solemn line. "I don't celebrate Christmas – never have and never will."

She bit her lip, not expecting that response. Even if he wasn't religious, surely he would want to celebrate it in a secular way. At least, she thought so.

_Of course, I have thought a lot of things about him and have been wrong, _she noted.

"My family loves Christmas," she said, thinking of the old traditions they had, both Narnian and English. "We always put a tree up. It wasn't a very big tree, but we loved it, nevertheless. Father would always bring one home on the first of December. We'd decorate it, singing carols. Mum made us sing. She had such a pretty voice. None of us could hold a candle to her." Her voice grew soft, remembering those days of long ago, as well as the Narnian ones. Christmas feasts and dances, parties that would last well into the early morning – Lucy couldn't imagine not celebrating Christmas. She closed her eyes, the images floating before her.

"My aunt would always have the house up in evergreen and holly. She would let me decorate the tree when I was younger, but once I was older, she just had the servants do it. I would get presents, of course. And we'd go to church. But I haven't celebrated Christmas in ten years," George said, his voice slicing through Lucy's dreams. She opened her eyes, the daydreams ended. George wasn't talking warmly and softly like she, but dully. He didn't care.

Lucy looked at him, the sun casting shadows across his face. His was looking at her with his steady, emotionless, gray eyes. She pitied him, that he could look back on Christmas and see it with indifference.

_No one should feel that way, _she thought, determination settling in her mind. Her fists clenched, as she thought of a plan. "Say, George, why don't I spend Christmas with you this year?"

George scoffed, unprepared for that answer. He blinked, unsure if she had asked him that. "You want to spend a holiday so dear to you with a boring bachelor like me? What about your family?"

"I think they'll understand it if I tell them that you need me for the holidays more than they do," she explained, squeezing his hand. _Besides, I'm sure Aslan will let me come if I ask him._

"And what would we do?" Disbelief was still etched in his features.

"I don't know. Walk about town, look at the shops. Maybe would could go to mass," she tried, holding her breath.

His disbelief turned into coldness in an instant. "No mass. You know what I think about God, Lucy."

"You sure?" she checked.

"Yes," he said, finality in his voice.

"Okay," she accepted, folding her hands. _No use in trying to force something on him he wouldn't like, _she admitted to herself. _But what to do now? I certainly can't talk to him about God…maybe if I told him about something else…_

"Did you ever imagine a world of your own, George?" Lucy dared, the words rushed and quick.

"Never. I don't have much of an imagination," he admitted.

"Well, I have. Only this world," she looked at George, praying that he would accept this far-fetched truth, "is real."

He didn't laugh at her. No, instead, he snorted, trying his hardest to hold back a burst of chortling. Lucy felt her cheeks stain red, wishing that he would stop. The disquieting tingle of embarrassment that ran through her body was horrible. "Are you being serious now, Lucy?"

"As serious as can be," she replied, trying to control the tone of her voice. She wanted so to scream from anger, but she choked it back.

George, after the initial disbelief, saw that she wasn't joking with him. He straightened up and looked at her, trying to keep a serious demeanor. "Go on, then."

Lucy took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. She started her tale, of how she and her siblings went out to the countryside during the air raids, how she had found a portal to the world of Narnia, and how this world was so unlike our world, yet so similar. She told of the long winter, of the White Witch, of the dwarfs and dryads and satyrs. Most of all she told of the Great Lion, and what he had given.

All the while, George sat, his lanky limbs bent at attention, his eyes steady and eager, his mind rapt. Lucy would steal glances at times, looking at George to see how he would react. He never lost interest, or reacted violently, but instead kept on looking at her. She found that the words came easier as the story went on, that her body relaxed. She felt at ease.

"And I was a queen there," she concluded, the story reaching its end, "my siblings, and me. It was a beautiful place. I miss it so." She looked out the window, the winter sun a feeble comparison to the one in New Narnia. She glanced back over at George, still wearing an attentive look. She laughed, aware of the absurdity of the situation. "Of course, you probably don't believe a word it, do you George?"

"It is very imaginative, Lucy," he said, uncoiling his body, "but how is it any different than the tales we hear as children or adults?"

"It is real," she remarked, softly.

"Whatever you say, Lucy," he muttered, turning away from her. "It is a very beautiful land, though."

_Not as beautiful as the world waiting for you, _she thought, as she felt the familiar tug pull on her arm. _Already? And I see him so little as it is. Well, there's always Christmas, _she thought, attempting to sit up. The couch was sucking her in deeper, but she managed, with George's help, to get on her feet. She rocked back and forth, trying to steady herself.

"I must go, George. It's been a pleasant visit," she said as she pulled her gloves over her hands.

"Yes, well, 'til Christmas," he bid, getting the door for her. The tug grew stronger as she walked closer to the door.

"I can't wait. It's been so long since I last celebrated it," she said thoughtlessly, only thinking about returning home.

George's face scrunched up into a puzzling look, not unlike the one he had given her the last time she had a slip of the tongue. "What do you mean? I thought you always celebrated Christmas."

Lucy felt a nervous flutter go through her body as she reached the door. _Drat, not again. _"Oh, yes, of course. I meant since last year. Silly me."

George nodded, accepting her explanation, but Lucy still felt shaken. How many more mess-ups until George would figure her out?

"Well, good-bye George. See you on Christmas," she said, smiling at him. The tug was becoming immense, increasing in its intensity by the second. _Almost home._

"Good-bye, Lucy," he whispered, closing the door behind her.

She walked down the building's steps and into another world.

__________________

_She just gets stranger and stranger every time I see her, doesn't she? _George thought, as he walked back over to his beaten-up couch. _First her finding my flat when I never told her where it was at, then her shoving church onto me, and now this…this country? She has to be crackers – or close to it_. He shook his head, trying to make sense of her. _And all of this speaking in the past…what is with her?_ He sat down on the sofa, his chin resting on his palm. _She's an odd one, that's for sure._

He looked out the window of his flat, the snow now falling from a dark sky. The fire burned slowly, while the sounds of London, muffled and flat, seeped through his room. _What was the name of that place again? Nar…Narnia, I think. What an odd place. That has to be some type of child's game. Yet…yet it fits with her, somehow._

He remembered how he would think of her in London, amongst the crowds, yet he could never remember her face, his imagination thin and frail. Even in a home in Finchley, George couldn't conjure her up in his mind. But in Narnia, George could see her, light and lovely. _That _was where she belonged, not here.

He could see Narnia in his mind, a place of beauty and brilliance. The images were loose and fuzzy, as if seen through fog, his imagination trying hard to work. He looked around for his canvas and brush, eager to have that world in his mind's eye before his own.

____________

Note: Thanks once again to my beta crazyelf22 for the criticism and advice, and for caleon and TastyAsItGets for their input and keeping me on track with my story.

On a sadder note, the actress who portrayed Jennie in the 1948 _Portrait of Jennie, _Jennifer Jones_, _died on the 17th of this month. If you haven't seen this lovely movie, I recommend it whole-heartedly. Not only is it the inspiration for this fic, but it also a lovely movie in itself. Jones's character in the movie corresponds with Lucy.


	8. Chapter 8

_Why do we go through this agony every year?_

George asked himself this question as he waited for the maid to answer the door. Snow was falling quickly, thickly, on and around him. For ten years, twice a year, he would stand outside his aunt's door, wondering why he was here. Then he would look at his rumpled, worn appearance and be reminded. Aunt Shannon supported him so much, he couldn't afford to stop these visits.

Aunt Shannon would always take the time during these visits to catch up with George, to learn of what he was doing and how he was getting along. However, George was always reminded the entire time, not too lightly, that she didn't approve of his career choice.

_If she doesn't approve of a thing I do, why does she even keep me on? _George looked over at the window, and saw the neighbor's face duck behind the curtains. _Ah, yes. The neighbors. God forbid she does something to cause the neighbors to talk._

The bells of the local church rang out for Christmas Eve mass, and the maid answered the door, smiling and nodding. She was a plain girl, young and fresh. She was the replacement for the old maid, who would often scold George in his youth and glare at him during his later visits.

"Shall I get your coat, Mr. Duncan?" she asked politely.

"Oh, sure," he slipped his ratty coat off and handed it to her, aware of how used and worn his clothes looked. The maid whisked his coat away, and left him alone, waiting in the gaping, vast atrium. He remembered when he was younger how he hated this atrium, scared of its vastness and emptiness. Even now, old as he was, George found himself nervous.

He heard a soft, sharp tittering in the next room, surely the help. They always talked and whispered about him whenever he came home. He felt like a piece of meat, up for inspection.

"Good evening, Mr. Duncan," the butler said, emerging from the next room, the whispers dying away with his entrance.

"Good evening, Harry," George replied, avoiding his gaze. Harry was one of Aunt Shannon's help who thoroughly agreed that George was wasting his life away as a painter. "Is she waiting for me?"

"In the parlor, as always," Harry replied, with a slight air of condescension in his tone. He walked towards the doorway, twirling his hand to get George to follow. The narrow, sharp hallways kept him in line, shadows tucked away in the crevices. The hallways were always cold. Even though he wore a sweater, it did nothing to keep a shiver from rushing up his spine.

"Your usual chair, Mr. Duncan."

Harry led him to a tall, wing-backed armchair, the one that was always reserved for him. He remembered when he was younger, sitting in the chair and being dwarfed by its tallness. Now he found that his nape hit the top of the chair.

The butler whipped away, leaving George alone in the tall, bare room. It had rich furniture, yet it was scattered about the large room, giving it a spotty, incomplete feeling. The fire crackled away, the flames leaping higher and higher, tickling the top of the mantle. A large painting of his grandparents was above the fireplace – done by another, more affluent painter, of course. George used to give Aunt Shannon some of his paintings as gifts, but she often hid them, hanging them in guest rooms and small, tucked away corners.

George looked up at the high, cathedral ceiling and sighed. Despite the fact that everything that had once seemed so big was now just average, the ceiling remained high and unattainable, just as it was in the farthest memory of his mind.

"Waiting for me, George?"

George jumped from shock, then turned to see his aunt looking at him through her thin-framed glasses. Her silver hair was pulled back from her face, the creases in her skin only adding to her age. She was dressed richly, in the latest fashion. She was an imposing figure, one that demanded attention and compliance.

"Good heavens boy, you were expecting me, weren't you? Don't jump so," she said, taking up her spot in her usual chair, a high backed, scroll-armed wooden chair. "Just looking around, Aunt Shannon," he mumbled, looking back down at the floor. The dark wood was covered with rich large rugs, always well dusted and clean. He remembered when he was five, how he tracked mud into the house, and how Aunt Shannon firmly scolded him and had him clean the rug. It took him days, hours upon end of being bent over, scrubbing.

"Well, not _too _much has changed, outside of Bertha's retirement. I do miss her so – she was a very good maid, always doing things rigidly. Can't say the same for Essie – such an inconsistent girl."

_Bertha's_ _gone – thank goodness_. George never liked Bertha. She upheld the rules just as much as Aunt Shannon, and liked to pick George apart even more. What Aunt Shannon lacked in empathy, Bertha made up for in scolding.

"She seemed like a very pleasant girl," George commented, feeling the need to defend the young maid. She seemed like the only one who didn't have a smug look around George.

"Pleasantries can only get you so far, George," Aunt Shannon reminded him, tightening her wrap. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, never revealing favor or disdain. "But other than that, nothing has changed."

Harry came back into the room, his head held high with dignity. "The dining room is ready, Miss Duncan."

"I know how little you eat George, so I won't keep you waiting for dinner," the old maid said as she pulled herself up. Much as George resented that fact, he knew it was true. Though he was able to eat more consistently now with his newly struck income, his stomach still had that perpetual feeling of being hollow.

The dining room had always been reserved for meals, even when George was a little boy. The tall, dark wooden chairs were stiff and imposing, and commanded him to sit straight. He could remember when his feet used to dangle off the edge; now he had to tuck his feet under the seat.

The table was loaded with foods George could never imagine eating at home. His aunt always made sure that she had the best to offer, special occasion or not. A large roasted goose was the centerpiece of the table, with smaller, simpler foods at the edges. He felt his stomach roar in excitement – it had been months since he had eaten so well.

The table was only set for two, as Aunt Shannon always made sure their Christmas Eve visits were private affairs. George could remember all of the dinner parties his aunt would throw, with him being confined to his room, too young to partake in such things. The sweet smells and sounds always enticed him, but he could never come down. Now, he dreaded the thought of being around so many stuffy, well-to-do people. He knew that they didn't think too highly of him; they also thought of George as the ne'er-do-well nephew.

He stood by his chair, waiting for his aunt to sit first. She always took her time getting to her seat at the head of the table. "I've finally been able to indulge in some richer things this year, George. Those awful sugar and meat rations have been lifted fully now."

_I'm sure it made no difference in your diet, anyway, _George thought, as he saw the usual sweetmeats and sauces decking the table. His aunt always knew how to get around such 'awful' things as rations.

"Come now, do sit," she commanded, as she folded herself into her chair. Her tall, dark features were mirrored across the table in George's own. She folded her hands together and bowed her head, reverence blending horribly into her frame. She still sat tall, still held her head erectly and purposefully.

George kept his gaze down as he sat, the long, empty table barricading him from his aunt. She had always ordered such proper distance. "Come George, fold your hands. You know we pray before eating – or have you forgotten?" Her voice clucked, the precise, even tone grating.

"No, Aunt Shannon." He folded his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes down. "For what we are to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. May he bless us all the days of our lives, and grant us deliverance. Amen," she mechanically said. His aunt always made sure to give the exact alms to God – always ten percent of her inheritance, prayer before meals, and going to church regularly. "Well, George, how has your life been?" she asked, as she unfolded her napkin and swept it into her lap.

"It's fine," he replied tersely. He knew that the usual barrage of questions that his aunt would unleash would be coming next – it always started with 'how has your life been?'

"Fine? Come, you know I don't appreciate short answers," she commanded, handing her plate to Harry to fill. She gave the guest a beckoning, curt look.

"It's better than it was in June, Aunt Shannon," he sighed, feeling the wriggling of resentment rush through him.

"Well, why is it better?" she continued, as she took her plate from Harry. She still wore a cutting, hard look on her face.

"Well, Mr. Maler has bought some of my paintings," he said, handing his plate to Harry. She knew that that would somehow satisfy her.

"Oh, wonderful. It's about time that that man did something good for you. Although, I really can't blame him for turning you down so much, George," she told him frankly.

George felt annoyance rub against him. "Well, he has said that my work has improved greatly. He says I might even be great," he replied, ignoring his aunt's callous comments.

"Great? Honestly, George?" Disbelief flavored her voice. "It takes genius to be great. What has happened that has made you so great all of the sudden?"

George thought of Lucy, and her sweet softness. She didn't seem like something Aunt Shannon would approve of – a young girl that randomly befriended him. "It's nothing, Aunt Shannon. I guess he has just seen how good I am."

She cocked her eyebrow in distrust. "Are young being honest, George? You seem to be hiding something from me."

_Why is she so good at reading me?_ George thought, swallowing. "Yes, Aunt Shannon," he lied.

She surveyed him for a moment, knowing in her eyes. She shook it away as she picked up her fork and started for the food. "Well, anyways, how much have you made so far?"

"Enough," he tried to avoid. Even though he was making more than he ever had before, he knew that it was not enough to sustain himself. The knowledge pained him.

"Enough for what?" she pried, as she pulled apart the goose meat.

"Enough for a few weeks at a time," he rushed, the feeling of dependence squirming through him.

"Hmm, not quite enough, is it?" she noted, observing the meat. "What happened to Mr. Maler thinking you were great, George?"

"It's not as if someone can achieve greatness suddenly, Aunt Shannon. I need time to be self-sufficient."

"Ten years seems to be enough time," his aunt tartly said, as she daintily bit into the goose.

George bit his tongue as he accepted his plate from Harry. The butler gave him a telling look, which he promptly ignored. He knew that the servants received too much pleasure from his discord with his aunt – it seemed to be their only entertainment.

"It took Van Gogh his entire lifetime before he became successful," George countered, knowing that his argument was weak.

"So how long are we supposed to wait then, George?" she sighed, wiping her mouth. "I know you want to do what you love, George. But sometimes, we have to put that aside and do what's best for us. I certainly didn't plan on being a matron, but I had to do what was best," she reminded.

George hated it whenever his aunt brought up his dependency. It was a cage she had built around him since he could first remember. She always kept him in line with that gentle reminder that she had given up her life to take care of him.

_Or, at least she says that, _George thought, knowing how much his aunt enjoyed being an heiress. She was twenty-six when she, too, became an orphan. It wasn't as if she had a life and a love – she had settled into old maidenhood by then, and was very comfortable by the time she had taken in George seven years later.

_I wasn't a burden – if anything, I was a chore, _George thought, resentfully.

"I know, Aunt Shannon," George said aloud, keeping his thoughts quiet.

She took a sip of the wine in front of her, examining it with a thoughtful eye. "Well, you could always take up a steadier job, George, if you don't like my lecturing." She could notice even the slightest resentment in his tone.

"No, it's fine Aunt Shannon," he quietly muttered. He had already finished his serving of goose, and yet his stomach still screamed for more.

"Well, enough of that, anyway," she waved away, finishing her last bit of goose. "My stocks have been doing well," she announced airily, as if she hadn't been dissecting George only a few seconds earlier. "Good news, at least for me. You know how horrible they were during the past ten years." Aunt Shannon lived off her parents' inheritance, which included a wide arrange of stocks.

"That's good," George muttered softly.

"You could be a bit happier, George," she asserted.

"Yes," he agreed, still without feeling.

His aunt sighed, looking at her nephew with her steely eyes. They weren't unlike his, dark and sharp, but there was a look of well-meaning and well-knowing in them. She didn't say anything, but just looked at him with restrained eyes and pursed lips.

_I know she's trying to break me, but we've been through all of this before,_ George thought, as he pushed his food around his plate. _I can take her staring at me better than she thinks._

She eventually cleared her throat and returned to her food, knowing that she had lost a battle. George dared to look up, to see his aunt drinking from her glass. It wasn't as if he didn't care about his aunt. But it was the fact that whenever he thought of her, it wasn't with love or hate or loathing – it was with aggravation. She goaded him to the brink of a tantrum, then quickly swept it away, as if it were just a spill, easily done away with and forgotten. She could easily erase irritation, but George could not. It remained, thick and impenetrable.

"Are you still doing landscapes, George?" she asked, her voice flat and even.

"Hmm?" He was still consumed with his feelings.

"I asked if you were doing landscapes," she repeated.

"Oh, yes. Well, for the most part," he said, the question slowly soaking in. "I have done some portraits."

"Of whom?" she asked.

The thought of a golden girl flew through his mind, and George knew that Aunt Shannon still wanted to wheedle her out of him. He closed his eyes, brilliance lighting the eyes of his mind, and opened them, to see darkness and shadow. "Of a girl. Lucy." The words creaked out of his mouth, unwilling to leave. He knew that he couldn't put this subject to rest unless he told her about Lucy, no matter how much he tried to avoid it.

"Lucy? I don't think we have any friends named Lucy. What's her last name?" her voice was brisk and casual, yet a tinge of concern was laced through it.

George felt himself stiffen as he struggled to think of her name. _Lucy…Lucy…do I even know her last name? Does she have one?_ George felt his stomach sink as he told his aunt that he didn't know it.

"Don't know her last name? Why, George, that's one of the first things you ask whenever you first meet someone," she declared, disbelief in her voice. "It's not as if she doesn't have any family now, does she?"

"She has family," George countered, suddenly losing all will to eat.

"Have you seen them?" she questioned, her voice becoming rough with doubt.

"N-no," George stammered, suddenly questioning how much he knew about Lucy. He thought that he knew everything there was about her, when now, it seemed, that she was just as big a mystery as she first was.

"Do you even know what school she went to?" Her voice was tense and thin. "No," he sighed, his stomach suddenly churning disgustingly. Lucy was being deconstructed, right before his very eyes, and he was sickened. She was being stripped of everything wonderful about her, and was left with the bare, unquestionable essentials.

His aunt tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. "This girls sounds very doubtful, George. Is she some sort of figment of your imagination?"

"No, Aunt Shannon, she's not. She's real – I've touched her, helped her. Painted her. It's not as if I don't know anything about her. She's tall and blonde and seventeen, and has four siblings, and lives in Finchley." He was clamoring, trying to find information, anything to show that she's wasn't fake, wasn't a lie.

"Is she your friend, George?" his aunt wondered quietly.

_Friend? I don't know – have we known each other long enough to even come that far? _George folded his hands together, wondering.

"George?"

"Yes, she's my friend," George replied, feeling a sense of relief and an unknown twinge at the words.

She surveyed him, looking at him intently, as if to pick out lies amongst his rubble of words. Her tapping fingers closed into a tight fist, a gavel to decide his case. "I don't know who this girl is, George, but I'd be worried if I didn't know who she was or who her family was."

George felt some anger rankle underneath the frustration he had developed. "What are you trying to say, Aunt Shannon?"

"Nothing, George. I would just be wary of anyone who doesn't tell you much about who they are," she replied, her defense walling up.

George narrowed his eyes, annoyed at her. Lucy wasn't like that. She was just a friend…his best friend.

"You're being very defensive, George," she noted. "That's not like you."

George bit his lip, trying to hold back his anger. He looked back down at his plate, no longer hungry. "I think I'm done for the night, Aunt Shannon."

"Done? But we haven't even started dessert, George," she said, the surprise genuine in her voice. There seemed to be a strange, foreign look that flashed across her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Shannon, but I'm done for the night." He stood up and wadded his napkin, throwing the white cloth down. Harry's eyebrows flew up, knowing that this would cause a sensation with the help.

"George, why are you leaving? This is so unlike you –"

"I don't think you know me very well, Aunt Shannon," George said, pushing his chair in. "I'm sorry to be rude, but I feel like I've overstayed my welcome." He didn't want to go through any of this, continue to hear his aunt's dissent.

"You know I don't ask much of you, George," his aunt said, something tremulous in her voice. George turned his head, looked over his shoulder. She was grasping the table, her knuckles whitening. She was crouched in her chair, as if ready to follow and come after him.

George looked down at the ground, biting his lip in silence. She may have been his benefactor for all of these years, but it was a duty, a job – never a relationship, nothing ever resembling love. He didn't feel anything right now, betrayal or otherwise. No, instead, he felt apathy. Apathy for a woman who never gave him light or love.

"No, Aunt Shannon. You don't know," he softly said. He turned and walked away, knowing that she wouldn't come after him.

* * *

It was nearing ten o'clock when George clicked the door to his flat closed. It was cold, the moon casting shadows on the floor. He lit a candle, trying to avoid lighting the stove. He flopped onto the sagging sofa, sinking. He pulled at the dirty, frayed fabric, another relic to his dependency on his aunt.

He could take many things, but he couldn't take her incessant questioning about Lucy, her insinuations that Lucy was anything but pure. She always thought little of people, subjected and judged them. She didn't care for others – they were a business for her.

Even George was someone in her game, a charity case to show how good and moral she was. He wondered if she had any feeling or emotion in her resembling love. That fleeting flash in her eyes suggested that maybe, somehow, she did care. But when she didn't go out to follow him, George knew that it was passing. Shannon Corinne Duncan was a lonely old woman, and would stay that way.

He turned his eyes to her picture hanging on the wall. George knew with a stinging heart that he and his aunt were more alike than they admitted. George hardly ever felt any empathy towards others, disregarded them like her. The thought was revolting, that he could be so much like that woman. Even now, he thought of her, lonesome in a huge, foreboding house, and him by himself in the dark. He didn't want to be like her, alone and aloof.

He stood up, got ready for bed, and laid down his thought-filled head. He knew that he couldn't continue on letting his Aunt have so much control over him.

He called her in the morning and broke off her allowance.

* * *

Note: Thanks once again to by beta, crazyelf22. I keep on telling you this crazy, but you're amazing. Seriously.

Second, I'd also like to thank you readers as well. Because of your many reads, this is my first story to get 1,000 hits! Here's to 1,000 more.


	9. Chapter 9

It was white Christmas that year indeed. The snow drifts curled up against the sidewalks, high waves against a gray shore. The air was crisp, and not without a slight sting. It was a perfect Christmas if George had ever seen one.

The trek to and from the phone booth a few streets down was not a pleasant one. George went with uncertain, fluttery feelings inside him and left with questions and more doubt. It was nine in the morning when he called up his aunt, who held a tone of shock and disdain in her voice. But by the end of the call, she was incredulous.

_Are you really sure about this, George?_

_Yes, Aunt Shannon._

_Are you? I mean, I really don't want you out on the streets like some – _

_- Aunt Shannon. It's best this way. Trust me._

_Whatever you say, George. You do know that I'll always be here if you need help._

_Yes._

He couldn't believe that he was free, free of constraints and worry. It felt refreshing and light, as if a knot inside of him had been undone. He knew that he desperately needed her money for rent, but somehow, rent didn't seem to be such a dire matter anymore. He looked up at the sky slowly spitting snow, and sighed.

_I guess I need to leave it up to fate or kismet or God or something, _George thought, as he scuffled his feet along the sidewalk. Maybe this Christmas wouldn't be so bad, after all.

* * *

_Ah, Christmas! I've forgotten what it feels like_, Lucy thought, as she walked down the street, looking up with a wide smile across her face. The lampposts were lit, flames leaping cheerily. There were still a few people walking about the streets, rushing to church. The sound of mass rung through the air, bells beating boldly through the streets.

There was a stillness, a soft, quiet sense of peace that pervaded the air. Lucy was sure that if she just closed her eyes and stood still, it would feel like she was back in New Narnia, joy and tranquility thick in the air. It was unearthly.

The cold and ankle-deep snow, however, brought her back to reality as she continued to walk down the street. She wondered what to do with George today, as she walked up the stairs to his flat.

It was near ten in the morning when she knocked on his door. Lucy held her breath in anticipation, expecting that he would open the door right away. Instead, George slowly opened the door, a clear, pensive look on his face.

"Happy Christmas, George!" she cried, throwing her arms around him in a quick hug. He meekly patted her back in response, his arms loose and hanging. Lucy pulled away, wondering what was wrong with him.

"Is something the matter, George?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"Oh, nothing Lucy," he replied. His voice wasn't unhappy – rather, it was light. Yet something about it was not quite right.

"Are you sure? I've never seen you so…so…well, dreamy. Usually that's my job," she joked. George cracked a kind smile.

"Well, a smile's better than nothing," Lucy declared, walking into the small room. His stove was burning dimly in the corner. A soft slant of light came through the window and settled on the floor. Lucy sat carefully on the sofa. She didn't want to run the risk of being swallowed up by it again.

"You must have done a lot of arm-twisting to get your family to let you come here on Christmas," George noted, filling up a copper kettle.

Lucy closed her eyes, remembering how Peter and Ed were questioning her about George and what Earth was like now. They had asked so many questions, curiosity bubbling at their lips. They were excited to hear that it was Christmas, and they wanted to know everything about anything, if Wilson's still set out the three-foot tall gingerbread house, if there was snow for Christmas, what their house was like now. Aslan eventually had to pull Lucy aside and send her back to earth, but not before telling her brothers to stop their interrogations. Some things, He said, were best left in the past.

"It wasn't too hard. I opened presents with them and went to mass, then came straight over here. Mother and Father tried to keep me back, but I told them not to worry," she replied.

"You have a very trusting family."

"No more than anyone else's," Lucy said, looking at the pieces of canvas about the floor. She thought she had heard a snort from George, but by the time she looked over her shoulder, he was rummaging for some tealeaves.

"I hope you don't mind that all of my tea is rather old," George said, setting out a pair of chipped cups.

"Oh, it's fine. I'm not really thirsty, to be honest." She didn't want to show George how well her hand slipped through cups.

"Not even a little?"

"No. But you can leave my cup on the counter," she replied over her shoulder.

"Can I at least take your coat?" he asked.

"Oh, of course," she replied. His flat was pleasantly and uncommonly warm today. She sighed happily, glad to feel warmth on Earth for once. "I'm sorry I didn't get you a present, George –"

"Oh, that's fine, Lucy. I never expect much on Christmas anyways," he said, walking over to her. He had a new, fresh look on his face, and a slight spring to his step, as if everything was new to him. He seemed changed, but she didn't know how. "I've got something to show you, actually." He reached for a painting, slumped against his bed. He turned it around, to show her the sight.

It took her a few moments before she realized what she was looking at. It was familiar to her – _very _familiar – yet she had not seen it on Earth. Her heart leapt in excitement once she recognized what the subject was.

"George – why – it's –"

"The lamppost," he said, completing her sputtering sentence. Lucy nodded, shocked from delight. Many famous and renowned painters in Narnia tried to capture this famous scene, of Tumnus passing by the lamppost, yet none had succeeded as George had. A tall, dignified post stood in the middle of the woods. Underneath was a faun, blurred and misty through the blizzard. Long limbs of trees reached towards the sky. Amongst the swirl of pure, white snow, shone a warmth of light, golden and bright. It was as she had seen it so many years ago, on that fateful day. Everything was perfect, down to the drifts. She couldn't believe that George, of all people, did this.

"George, it's beautiful," she gasped.

"I was hoping so. After you told me about Narnia, I felt like I just had to paint it. It drove me absolutely mad – I had such headaches trying to imagine this. But I think it turned out well."

"Well? George, this is best painting you've done so far," she declared, her heart slowly starting to lose speed.

"That's a bit of a stretch, Lucy," he blushed, as he set the painting carefully on his bed. He turned and sat next to her, the blush still coloring his cheeks. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything," she softly said, furrowing her brows. Her heart calmed quickly as puzzlement filled her.

"Well, I have done some paintings of you for Mr. Maler, and he liked them so much he wants me to do a full-sized portrait of you. He thinks…well, he thinks that it might put me on the map." His voice was steady and clear, hope-filled.

"Oh, that would be wonderful, George!" Lucy cried. She squeezed his hand, excited. It was as if everything she was working for, everything that she wanted, was falling into place. "What do you want me to do? Will it be sitting, or standing? How big will it be? Should I –"

"Whoa, Lucy," he cried, laughter tingeing his voice. "Calm down. It's not all going to happen today. It takes time to paint a picture, especially the size that I want it to be." He stood up and walked to the back room, shadowy and unseen. Lucy could feel excitement course up her body again as she thought of the painting. She had posed for portraits before in Narnia, so she knew what it was like to sit still for hours, while anticipation crawled through her.

George returned, with a canvas as wide as he was, and nearly as tall. Lucy's eyes widened when she saw it. "Oh, George – this will take you forever!"

"Not forever. I have all day to paint. Besides, it's supposed to be my masterpiece – not every masterpiece was made in a day." He leaned the board against the wall. "I already prepared it. Maybe we could sketch it out today. Not much else. I don't want to take up your Christmas with sitting and waiting."

"Oh, it's fine George," she replied, excitement still rushing through her veins.

He drug out a chair from the kitchen table and set it against the blank, white wall. "You can just sit here. Nothing fancy. I just want you to be plain, simple. As I always see you."

She got up from the low-sitting sofa and sat on the high-backed chair. She sat up as tall and straight as she could, wearing a blank, neutral face.

George took the large canvas and rested it against his easel. The large, fabric-covered stretcher eclipsed the wooden frame. With shaking, nervous hands, he picked up a piece of charcoal from a box next to his bedside. He turned to the canvas, and sighed.

He looked over at her, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He was studying every part of her, and for some reason, Lucy felt an awkward flush creep into her cheeks. She had never felt so scrutinized before, whether amongst the foreign consulates in Narnia, or in the schoolrooms of Earth.

"Don't look so scared," George commanded. "And smile." He raised his arm and lightly touched the charcoal to the canvas.

"But holding a smile hurts!" she complained.

"You don't look natural without a smile," he softly said.

Lucy reluctantly gave a grin. She always hated how crooked and uneven her teeth were. She never considered her smile to be pretty. Susan was always the one to get compliments on her white, straight teeth.

"Come on, Lucy. You're not smiling, you're wincing." He gave her a knowing look.

"Oh, all right," she sighed. She gave a wide, bright smile.

"There we go," he whispered, a soft awe in his voice. Scratches of the charcoal hitting the board filled the air. Lucy could feel the muscles in her face tense up, but she tried her hardest not to let the pain affect her. George was carefully, passionately scribbling on the canvas, his mouth pursed in concentration. His dark eyes held a light of ardor in them, something Lucy had yet to see.

The minutes ticked along as the painter continued to sketch. Lucy felt her arms and back grow sore. She could hear soft sounds of cars honking and racing through the streets, and the unmistakable sound of carols.

"I'm nearly done, Lucy," George announced, with a few flicks of his wrist. "Just one last thing." He finished softly, dropping the charcoal from the canvas and stepping back. He stood silently, looking at the drawing blankly.

Lucy stood up, wondering what it looked like. When she turned to see the sketch, she fell silent.

It was like her in every way, from the freckles racing across her face to the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled. It was like looking into a colorless mirror.

"George, this is perfect," she whispered.

"I suppose so," he said, quietly. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"What, is something wrong?"

"Well, just little things here and there."

"I think it's wonderful – and not just because it's of me." She laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Whatever you say, Lucy," he sighed. "We can start painting it another day – I already have the colors marked." He dropped the charcoal down and walked to the sink, washing his hands. "Do you have any ideas for what to do today?"

"No. But I'm sure we can think of something along the way," Lucy said, still examining her portrait. She hadn't seen such an accurate portrait of her before. All of the court painters softened her features, removed her freckles, straightened her hair, reshaped her eyes. She never liked how the portraits turned out, so odd and foreign and unlike her.

"It's not that amazing, Lucy," George's voice brought her back to Earth.

"Oh, George! You're far too hard on yourself. I'm sure that it will be magnificent, if it isn't already." She tore her eyes away from the portrait with difficulty. "Now, back to Christmas."

"I'm sure you don't want to stay cooped up here. My flat isn't the most spirited place to be," George announced.

"Why don't we go walking and look at all the shops?" Lucy suggested. She always liked looking at the storefronts during Christmastime. "It's our last day to enjoy the displays."

"Sounds fine to me," George said, reaching for their coats. "I window shop a lot, anyway."

"Then you're an old pro!" she declared, as he helped her with her coat. "Come, let's go while it's still morning." She took his hand and pulled him with her, out of the flat and into the city.

Across the street, a brightly lit department store had a huge display, of lights and twirling figures, stuffed dancing bears and motorized trains looping around. Mannequins were dressed in the latest fashions, enticing people to be just like them. Lucy looked down at the yellow coat that she wore, and wondered how she would look in the bright red coat adorning a dummy.

"Don't you just love displays like this, George?" said Lucy wistfully.

"Within reason," he said, observing the doll pram. "I always see this display whenever I look out the window."

"But have you ever looked at it up close?" She tilted her head, looking at the small details on the tree centerpiece. "Like, have you noticed the tiny candles on some of the boughs?" She pointed to a small wax candle, nestled neatly in the nook of the branch.

"No, I never have," he admitted.

"It's obvious that someone took a great deal of time making this," she noted, looping her arm around his. "All so that someone would maybe notice it for one second. Haven't you ever done that with one of your paintings?"

George began to walk with her, his face scrunched in thought. "I have in some of my paintings."

She looked up at the sky, light filtering through. "I sometimes think that it's the small things that matter the most. And that we should always give them attention." She thought of her time in Narnia, and how she was known for keeping her siblings in line with the small things. For, as she always believed, it was littlest details that could make an empire fall.

She could feel George looking at her with that same, mystified look on his face as before. She tried to ignore it, but she couldn't help but look up at him. His gray eyes were not questioning, but, rather, interpreting, as if her words were filled with some sort of hidden meaning.

"You know, Lucy, I often wonder if there's something you're not telling me," he uttered.

Lucy felt a nervous flutter inside of her, but soon swallowed it. He couldn't possibly have any idea…

"Oh, look at that display!" she declared as they passed by a candy store. Piles of sweets and trinkets adorned the storefront, colorful and bright. She was tempted to press her face against the window, but then remembered how she could easily slip through walls, and stood back. "Candy stores always have the best displays. So bright and colorful." She sighed. There were many things she did not miss about Earth – the cold, the constraints of time, the dreariness – but there were some things she missed dearly. Christmas and all that in entailed was one of them. She looked at George, and wondered if he could fathom a place where celebrations didn't matter because every day was one.

_I wonder if he can even fathom an Earthly celebration, _Lucy thought, a hint of weariness in her. The indefinite arch to his lips and the slight touch of his fingers on the glass showed clear wariness, as if he was treading on sacred ground.

"You act as if you've never seen a window front, George," Lucy giggled.

"Oh, well, I," he sputtered. George was still incredibly awkward, as always.

"It doesn't hurt to press your face up against the glass – trust me, I've tried dozens of times, and have had my mum reproach me for it, too."

George nodded, and pressed his face against the glass. Lucy had to try hard to contain her laughter, the sight of this grown man bent up against a pane like a child. "Is this good enough for you, Lucy?"

"Oh, yes," she replied. She peeled him off the window, wrapping her arm around his and giving it a tight embrace. "Come on, there's still so much more to see." She heard the strain of Christmas music from the buildings and flats, twining in the air. She began to think of Narnian carols, and how different they were from Earthly ones. She remembered, with a smile, how she tried to teach some Narnians Earthly Christmas carols, and having it result in a multitude of questions. She began to hum a light, clear tune absentmindedly as they walked down the street.

"What's with you and that song, anyway?" George's questioning brought her back to reality.

"What song?"

"The one you're humming. You know, that one you sang to me the first time we met."

"Well, it's a Narnian song," she answered earnestly. She could see the disbelief and joking in George's eyes.

"From that country you told me about."

"Yes. It's an old one, from the time of the Long Winter – you remember that, don't you?"

"The winter? Yes."

"Well, it's about Aslan, the Great Lion. It had been centuries since Aslan had last appeared, and the Narnians wondered what great mystery He held, as well as His country. Nobody knows where He comes from, and nobody knows where He is going, but they do know that's where everything goes in the end."

She dare not look at George, lest she be greeted with his mocking smile and disbelieving eyes. Yet, when she eventually gave in and looked up, she saw him looking at her with astonishment.

"Where do you come up with this stuff, Lucy?"

Lucy felt her temper rise up again, but she controlled it. She knew that divulging anything related to Narnia would usually result in some sort of skepticism. "I didn't, George. I told you, it's real." She kept her voice as calm and even as she could, but found the task taxing.

"Oh, right. Of course," he muttered. Lucy could tell that he was obliging her, and she hated the feeling.

_I wish he would understand, believe. He did do that painting of the lamppost and Mr. Tumnus... but he probably thought it was some great fantasy of mine that he was indulging. Nothing more than a dream and some inspiration for him._ The thought was heavy and bitter in her mind. She pursed her lips and looked up, as if trying to divine answers from above. Then she sighed and knew that it would be better just to move along.

They moved at a normal, ambling gait around the city, keeping close to each other. Lucy had to be wary of others crossing the street, to make sure that she didn't magically walk through them. She found that keeping their arms linked was cumbersome, and she slipped her hand into his. He stiffened, then relaxed, wrapping his hand around hers.

It was nearing four when Lucy felt the same, familiar tug to go back to Narnia. She felt her heart sink at the first pull, hoping that it was almost a mistake.

_It's been too lovely of a day. I've never seen George so happy before. _I_ can't remember being this happy on Earth before._ But she knew that, eventually, it would have to end. She walked with George to his flat.

"Are you sure that your parents will find you here?" he asked, caution clear in his voice.

"Yes, George, I told them where your flat was."

He stood, looking down at the ground for a few minutes, thinking, before he pulled his gaze up and looked at her. "Are you sure? I don't feel right about leaving you here alone."

She felt the urgency of the tug on her, and Lucy knew that, at any moment, Aslan would pull her away. "It's fine, George. I've lived in London for seventeen years now, you know. I can defend myself."

He nodded his head slowly, taking in her explanation. "Well, if you say so, Lucy." He held out his hand stiffly. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, George," she replied. She looked at his awkward hand, and smiled. He was trying so hard to be warm and friendly; it was difficult for him. She pushed his hand back, and instead wrapped her arms gently around his waist. George returned the hug weakly, unsure and uncertain as to mold his arms. "Work on your hugs," she whispered into his ear, before breaking their embrace. She walked out to the curb, waiting, hoping that she wouldn't be pulled away right before his very eyes.

She looked over her shoulder, to see the painter walking slowly away. His carriage was erect and his head held high. She turned back, the pulling immense. She closed her eyes, and was greeted with the feel of cool grass between her toes and warmth surrounding her.

* * *

It was well into the night, and George found himself sitting up, a cup of tea in his hand. His gaze was focused at the depths of his murky drink, the swirls twirling about, like the thoughts in his mind. How strange it was that after every visit with Lucy left him confused and ponderous. How long would this go on for – forever?

_I must be obsessed with the God-blessed girl, _he thought. He took a sip of his lukewarm tea. He stood up from his seat at the sofa, and walked over to the large windows across the room. The moon was swathed by wooly gray clouds, a great white hole amongst a dark cloth. He gazed up at the sky, admiring its brightness, before drawing his eyes back down at the stores. The bright storefronts were still lit up, though some had already begun their process of reverting back to the old display. He took another sip of tea.

_I guess she was right, after all. _He would have ignored that display, had she not taken him out today.

George heaved a sigh, doused his tea down, and crawled into bed. He was tired, physically and mentally, but while his body complained, his mind raced well into the morning.

* * *

Note: I really hope it never takes me this long to update again. I'm truly, very sorry for the long wait.

On a different note, I'm halfway into the story now, and I would really like it if I could get some feedback from all of my readers out there. I don't usually ask for reviews, so this is the rare occasion that I am asking you to please, tell me your honest opinion about this story. Please, give me good, well-rounded critiques, or at least tell me what you like and what you hate. Thanks, I appreciate it!


	10. Chapter 10

The new year passed without much fanfare for George. It was, to him, another reminder of how quickly time passed. But instead of feeling apathy and annoyance at the passing year, George felt a strange sense of freedom. His painting of that magical land of Lucy's sold well – far better than he expected.

"Two hundred pounds?" George sputtered, as Mr. Maler nodded.

"Two hundred pounds –and worth every bit," he replied, taking the money from his safe box. "This is just extraordinary, George – the painting is so new and different. It's full of mystery and promise – and heart. You actually wanted to paint this, didn't you?"

George furrowed his brows, wondering what the man implied. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Maler cleared his throat, as he tucked the safe box away. "All of your earlier paintings – the landscapes and still-lives – those were all forced, weren't they?"

George hung his head, aware that the owner knew him all too well. "I needed the money, so I painted. What's wrong with a blood money picture?"

"Nothing George," he said, sitting down at his desk, "it just won't get you anywhere. This," he gestured to the lamppost "will get you more money and fame than any blood picture." He marked down the sale in his log, then looked at the painter over his glasses. "How is that painting of the girl coming along?"

George thought of the half-finished, grand-sized canvas in his flat, bold and vibrant. "It's a work-in-progress. I have the lean layer done – now it's just layering the fat."

"Ah, oil. Have you ever considered trying another medium? Oil painting can be very time-consuming. I preferred watercolors myself."

"Oils are very warm, rich. I'm not a fan of watercolors –they're too translucent, too delicate," George said.

Mr. Maler nodded. "How is that model of yours – what's her name again?"

"Lucy," he said, the name light on his lips.

"Lucy. Lovely name. Where is she from?"

"Finchley," he replied, wariness creeping into his tone. How many times had he explained her, tried to give reasons to her being? He still knew so little about her. He always wanted to ask her, to get to the bottom of things, but whenever she was with him, he forgot. He always forgot around her.

"Is she a family friend?"

"No. Just my friend," he replied. He fiddled with his hands. Why were the questions so hard to answer now?

"She's very young. How did you meet?"

"She just bumped into me one day and started talking to me," he said. For some reason, it sounded strange, how they met. Abnormal.

"A very precocious girl. I'm surprised you didn't try to push her away," he joked.

"I almost did," George muttered.

"Do her parents know about you painting her?"

"No…not that I know of," the painter replied, that same feeling of dread rising up in him. "They seem to be very open to things."

"Have you met them?"

The feeling of dread crawled deep into him, slithering into his stomach. How sick he felt, how disgusted. He had known her for months now, yet never asked much. "No."

Mr. Maler pursed his lips and bent his head down. He knew that his questioning was making George feel uncomfortable – he always knew George best. "Well, I'm sure they're very good people. Now, try and get that finished. Who knows what'll be like?"

"Yeah," George replied, that feeling of dread surrounding him. He hated it, dearly. He tucked his portfolio under his arm and buttoned his coat up, as he walked out of Mr. Maler's office.

George wanted desperately to get out, to avoid that feeling of anxiety and embarrassment swimming through his body. He tried to keep his focus ahead, at the door. He looked briefly over his shoulder, however, at the secretary.

Her glowing, familiar hazel eyes were locked on him. She was staring at him, ferocity in her gaze. She seemed angry with him, as if he had done something wrong. George diverted his gaze for a second, hoping that she would be embarrassed and turn her gaze away. But when his eyes settled back on her, the golden gaze was still boring into him. George felt himself flush as he hurried for the door. Never had the secretary looked at him for that long, and with such intensity in her gaze. George felt a flutter of nervousness run through him, before he dismissed it as an overreaction. Really, he was getting _quite _foolish.

* * *

He had managed to shake his encounter with the secretary by the time he had reached his flat. The sun was trying to slip through the clouds as he opened the door to his flat building. The landlord, skulking silently behind his door, looked stonily at George. George nodded in acknowledgement, before moving on. A smug smile spread across his lips – he had caught up on rent, much to the landlord's chagrin. It felt wonderful to be clear of that heavy burden which he had for so long.

A familiar golden glow was outside of his door, making him smile even more. Lucy stood, her back against the wall and her face tilted up in a reverie. His smile straightened, though, as the feelings of doubt surfaced in his mind once again.

"Hello again, George," she greeted cheerfully. "I hope you don't mind me always waiting outside your door – I'm not being too forward, am I?"

"No more than usual," he joked, as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The massive painting of Lucy filled the room, drawing his eyes to it once again.

"Oh, my portrait!" she declared, rushing over to examine the painting. She stood there for what seemed like hours, before George came over and looked with her.

"How does it look?" he asked, nervously. Despite his recent success, George still felt nervous whenever someone looked at his paintings.

She stood there, silent. George feared the worst, but when she turned to him, a smile lit up her face.

"Oh, George, it's so beautiful. It looks exactly like me – I can't believe it."

"I'm not quite done yet – I still have to add a few more layers of paint, and check the details. Do you still want to pose?"

"Oh, sure!" she ran over to get a chair, but he stopped her.

"I'll get it – you just relax. You're going to be sitting up for a long time." He drug the chair over and took her coat, as she smoothed out her skirt and flipped her hair. She stood up just as straight and tall as before, with the same eager smile gracing her face.

Lucy, when it came down to it, was not truly pretty. Her teeth were crooked, her chin too pointed, her complexion bland. Yet there was a warmth, a presence about her that overcame her physical shortcomings. And that was all George saw, and what he captured.

He picked up his palette, and smeared his brush with paint, when a thought came to him.

"Lucy," he asked shakily "I don't think you've ever told me your last name."

"Really? How strange. It's Pevensie, if you want to know."

_Pevensie, Pevensie…where have I heard that name before? It's not very common…_he dotted a freckle running across her face. _Maybe it was one of Mr. Maler's patrons._

"George?"

"Hm?"

"You've been standing still for the longest time. I was wondering if something was wrong."

"Oh, nothing," he replied, adding another stroke of yellow to her hair. "Say, Lucy, where did you used to go to school?"

"Spencervale."

_Spencervale…no, I don't know anyone that went there by that name...._

"I feel like I've heard your last name before, Lucy. I just can't remember where." He contoured the side of her cheek.

"Maybe you met my brothers or family some other time. I can't say that I knew you before last year."

He highlighted her teeth. He couldn't forget her name…it haunted him, begging him to figure out its familiarity.

"George, do you need me to smile still?"

"No," he replied, pulling his brush away from the canvas, "in fact, I think I'm done." He stepped away from the painting in awe. Never had he created something this large before, and never like this.

"Oo, do let me see!" she declared, jumping up from her seat and running over to his side. She stiffened up in somberness when she saw the painting.

"Oh, George," she whispered. She threw her arms around his neck impetuously. He returned the eager embrace, gently. Though she had given George hugs many times before, he suddenly felt himself tense up at her touch, aware of their closeness. Her arms, too, were tight against his back. As he looked down into her eyes, he felt a strange blush creep into his cheeks, his face growing warm. They quickly broke apart.

"Well, it _is _getting late," she brushed aside. "I'd better be going." She walked over to the coat rack.

"Here, let me get that for you," he offered, taking her coat off and trying to slip it onto her shoulders. He felt the color in his cheeks intensify, and he writhed inside from an unknown feeling.

"I've got it, George," she muttered, the same strange color on her cheeks. "Thank you, nonetheless. The portrait is wonderful."

And with that, she left.

________________

He stood there, for what seemed to be hours, staring at the painting. He felt as if he could spend the rest of his life looking at it, admiring it. He was always the last one to admit that he had done anything good, but for once, George felt that something marvelous was before him. He had not capture a great beauty – no, that was not what he wanted nor did he achieve. Rather, he had captured the spirit of a human soul on canvas. And that great, glowing light of Lucy's soul entranced him.

He didn't wanted to depart from it, but he knew that the second this painting was ready, he would bring it to Mr. Maler. He turned his gaze out, to see a soft slant of sunset through the window shade.

* * *

Note: after two very long chapters, a short one. Thanks once again to all of my readers. The story is now up to over 2,000 hits!


	11. Chapter 11

The great, golden painting of Lucy took up nearly all of Mr. Maler's office. It hovered over his desk, overshadowing everything else in sight. Mr. Maler wore a look of shock and awe when he saw the scale of the work.

"My God, George, this is bigger than you are."

"I know. I had quite the time getting it through the streets of London," he said, groaning as he leaned the painting up against the wall. "But it's done; that's what's important."

The owner nodded, as he fingered the cloth covering the painting. George bit his lip as he grasped the drop cloth.

_Better to get it over with right away._

He waited with bated breath as he unveiled the painting to the owner. He felt the butterflies in his stomach recoil and burst and fly about, causing massive havoc. He desperately wanted this to be over, so he could regain his sanity. He must have closed his eyes at one point, because a small gasp caused them to fly open.

The owner was not gushing, nor wearing that same look of awe that he first had. He had a blank, pensive face, as he examined the portrait. George felt his stomach flop about even harder. He had never seen Mr. Maler react like this to one of his paintings before.

_Please, please let it be something good, _George prayed, clutching the drop cloth tight in his hands. He was expecting an emphatic, wild reaction, much like the ones Mr. Maler had been giving his newer paintings. He didn't know what to make of this response.

"George-"

"If it's awful, just tell me so," he cut off, his nerves finally getting to him. The owner looked at him, startled.

"Why George, it's not awful at all," Mr. Maler whispered. His voice was thin and wispy, as if he was treading on sacred ground. "If anything, this is your finest work. It's a masterpiece."

That feeling of being filled with butterflies was gone as soon as it had come. He felt numb, unsure of what was just said. "Excuse me sir?"

"It's beautiful, George. You should be very proud – I would kill to do something this lovely. Anyone would. It's like this girl is living, breathing before me. I have no idea how you can do this." His voice was full of reverence.

George shook his head, trying to comprehend what was being said. Never had anyone given him such high praise. It felt foreign and uplifting. The numbness was quickly being replaced with a feeling of airiness. He felt sick with all the sudden changes.

"Do you mean it, Mr. Maler?" he asked, like a small child currying favor.

"Yes. This doesn't belong here, George. I know it doesn't, small gallery owner I may be. No, this belongs somewhere great – like a museum."

"You can't be serious." His voice cracked.

"As serious as can be," he replied. "This place is too small for something like this. I never thought I would say this to anyone, least of all you, George, but I can only pay you a holding fee, until we can get this somewhere else."

George felt like stumbling from shock, but he somehow managed to compose himself. It was happening far too fast. He, George Duncan, who five months ago was nothing more than a mediocre painter, was going to be displayed in a museum? The thought would never have occurred to him.

"Mr. Maler, I don't know what to say," he gasped.

"Well, thank you, for starters," the frank man joked. George nodded and took the man's hand, shaking it furiously.

"I can't thank you enough, Mr. Maler," he breathed.

"Don't mention it," he said, pulling George's hand off. "That girl really has changed your life. I'd be grateful to have such a fruitful muse."

"I am, Mr. Maler." He thought of the gay, golden-haired girl, and a surge of softness rushed through him. He didn't quite know what the emotion was – he was just certain that he had never felt it before, for anyone.

"We'll have a public unveiling for this portrait. I think that will be the best way to get your career started," Mr. Maler announced, as he reached into his gray safe box.

"A public unveiling? For me? Mr. Maler, you're being far too nice –"

"Nonsense, my boy. After all the time and energy I've invested in you, it would be a shame not to do this." He pulled out a checkbook and a pen and began to scribble. "Here, take this for now," he handed the painter the slip of paper. George glanced down at it, and felt his heart throb.

"Mr. Maler, this is too much –"

"How many times must I tell you that I know what I'm paying for? You deserve every penny of this, George. Trust me." He closed the painter's palm around the check. "Just make sure you don't spend it all on paints."

"Yes sir." He clenched the paper tightly, then stuffed it into his coat pocket, delirium clouding his mind. It had only been twenty minutes since he came in, yet those twenty minutes were enough to change his life. How strange fate had been, since that day in October when he first met Lucy. He owed her everything he made, down to the last penny.

"Now, we'll be having this unveiling in about three, four weeks. Come back next Thursday like you always do, and I'll get more details. Until then, keep up your work. You can't live off a masterpiece forever, you know."

"Yes," he replied, as the owner shooed him out of his office. George felt his feet tumble under him.

"Good-bye, George."

"Good-bye, Mr. Maler."

George walked slowly, quietly away from the door. He didn't know where he was going, just that the door was somewhere to the right. He was so dazed that he paid no attention to the desk in front of him.

"Careful!"

The secretary's shrill voice pierced his fog. George stopped just before he ran into the side of her desk. She gave him a reproachful look, with those same hazel eyes. He remembered how coldly she had looked at him before – why did she do that? Probably angry with him for something. But what?

_I'm probably being silly. Besides, it's just the secretary. She doesn't hurt anyone. _

George shook his head as the euphoria slipped away. "Sorry. Just a little excited. Did you hear what Mr. Maler was saying?"

"No," she politely replied, as she straightened the flowers on her desk.

"He says that painting of mine is meant for a museum." He blushed with embarrassment, realizing how much like a child he sounded.

"It certainly was large enough," she breezily stated, trying to return to her work.

_She certainly was never the nicest of sorts_, George thought. _But maybe she just needs someone to be nice to her. Like Lucy._

"We're going to have a public unveiling sometime soon – would you like to come?"

She stopped her tasks and froze, before looking up at him with a puzzled face. "Did you really just invite me to your unveiling?"

"Yes – you are a part of this gallery, aren't you?"

"I suppose. It's just – well, it's been while since I've been to any type of party," she sighed. "It seems almost foreign."

"All the more reason to come," he said. He chuckled to himself, noting how he sounded like Lucy now.

The secretary smiled softly, the first smile he had seen from her. It was even and white, a perfect smile. "I suppose I could work that in."

"Good. I'll see you then, Susan."

"Good-bye, George," she nodded, as the painter walked away.

As he looked up into the clear, cloudless sky, George noted that he had never felt this happy before. He was free of burdens and restrains, and there seemed to be hope in his future. All because of one girl.

___________________

The day had come when George was to unveil his painting, and he felt like something had taken over his body. He couldn't sleep, eat, or drink. He felt weak, ready to collapse to the floor.

His eyes shifted nervously about as he searched the crowd. He had a dim hope that, somehow, Lucy would be here, to see him triumph. But he knew that she wouldn't be – she hadn't visited him since he finished the painting.

People whom he had never met were shaking his hand and congratulating him, as if he were someone important. He would politely thank them and smile back, unable to say anything. His mouth was hindered by anxiety. What if these people saw his painting and absolutely hated it? He didn't want to think about that – but the thought was inevitable.

_I'm just getting too ridiculous. They'll love it…I hope._

He was standing up on the platform next to Mr. Maler now, waiting for the cue. He bought a new suit with some of the fee money Mr. Maler gave him. It was the nicest thing he had owned in years, and it felt foreign on his body.

"You look good today, George," the owner noted.

"I wish I felt as good," he muttered back. His hands, knotted in his pockets, were starting to shake. He desperately wanted to get this over with.

"You'll be fine," the owner clapped his back.

George nodded, trying to let Mr. Maler's words sink in. He glanced back out at the crowd, this time searching for someone else. He looked at the back of the crowd, and felt a feeble smile grace his face. Susan was there, by her desk, keeping to herself. She briefly glanced up at him, and he waved, weakly. She waved back, a demure grin on her face. She was very pretty when she smiled, a very reserved beauty.

"Are you ready, son?" the owner asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he replied, sighing. A pounding began in his ears.

"Okay." Mr. Maler returned to the opposite side of the painting. He rang a bell, and the audience magically quieted. The silence seemed even more intimidating than the chatter. "Ladies and Gentleman, I think you all know why you are gathered here today. I have the great honor of premiering this painting to you, from one of my most regular artists. He is not very well-known, but certainly an up-and-comer. I believe this painting to be one of his best, if not his masterpiece. So now, I give you George Duncan's latest work, _Lucy_."

The owner grasped the drop cloth with his right hand, and George with the other. The two exchanged a glance, before the final twist was given, and the painting bestowed to the world.

There was silence at first, the same silence that greeted George when he first showed it to Mr. Maler. George could only hear the loud pounding in his ears now. But, after the initial looks and sounds of shock, the crowd erupted into cheers and chatter. George felt the immense pressure lift off him. He was a success – everyone said so. He wove his way through the crowd, accepting more handshakes and dealing with offers. A wide, hearty grin graced his face, and couldn't leave. He had made it.

As he journeyed through the crowd he looked up back at Susan's desk. His brows furrowed as he saw her walk away quickly, to the back of the gallery. Why was she running away? Surely she liked this painting – didn't she? All of the happy congratulations fell on deaf ears as George rushed to meet Susan.

She had grabbed her coat and was now heading for the door. George rushed to catch her, but she had already left. He ran out the door, no longer worried about the celebration.

"Susan, wait!" he called out, as she walked ahead. He eventually caught up with her in front of a café. "Susan," he caught her arm. She turned and looked at him, her golden eyes glowing with that same angered look as before. Why was she so upset? And why did those eyes now suddenly strike him as familiar?

"Get off of me," she grunted, trying to shake him off. She was a tall, graceful woman, but she couldn't shake someone George's size.

"Susan, what's wrong?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Duncan. I should have known from that first painting," she spat, trying furiously to push him off.

George shook his head, unbelieving. Was she really angry at him? What did he do? Did he offend her somehow? "Susan, what did I do?"

"Is this all a sick joke to you? You know perfectly well what you did." she turned and looked at him, malice clear in her tone.

"No, what?" He felt lost and foggy, unsure. A thought suddenly struck George, as he remembered why the name Pevensie sounded so familiar.

"That girl, in your picture? She's my sister. She's been dead for six years."

__________________

Note: Much thanks to my beta, crazyelf22, for fixing my mistakes and holding my hand through this chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

Whenever George would look back on _Lucy_'srevealing, he would think of it in two parts: before Susan and after Susan. Before Susan, he was sure and confident, full of hope for the future. After Susan, he was in a dense fog, unsure and shaky. It was her few, sparse words that changed his life.

_Strange, _he thought, _that a few words can change an entire lifetime._

Her terribly beautiful face was staring at him. Rage was flickering in her eyes. Those eyes were obviously familiar now – how could he not recognize them? They were Lucy's eyes, even when filled with anger.

"Dead?" His voice was hollow.

"Yes, dead," she repeated, impatient. "Don't act as if you didn't know."

"But, Susan, I didn't." His mind was racing at the speed of light. This couldn't possibly be true – Lucy was alive…the most alive person he knew. "I met her, talked to her, touched her. She spoke to me, posed for me–"

"I don't care what you _think_ you did with her_,_" she spat, trying to keep her voice low. The people rushing by were looking at them, at the spectacle they were creating. "Let's not say anymore just now. You've got an unveiling to be at," she dismissed.

George wouldn't let the subject die away so easily. "We can't just go back there and act as if nothing happened, Susan. You started this, you need to end it," he said, determined. His entire world had been turned upside down, and he wasn't going to leave it that way.

"I'll tell you later. But do you want to make a bad impression on those people, or not?" she said. Reason rang in her voice, her fiery emotions suddenly gone. Now, he only saw a woman who was going about her business. And, as it seemed before, she was right.

"I suppose," he meekly said. He followed her as she wove through the crowds, keeping his head down in thought.

_Lucy isn't dead. She can't be – I've seen her. I don't know what this woman thinks, but she's certainly off her rocker. I should have just let her be. She's probably just making this up, having a time with me. Stupid woman. Lucy's real – she's just jealous. That's all that can be explained. She's alive…I know she is._

The rest of the unveiling, though successful, was a pale memory in George's mind. He was polite as possible, making small talk and complimenting the droll, oblivious ladies. Though he was in Maler's Gallery, his mind was far off, with Lucy.

______________

The unveiling ended, and George never felt more relieved.

"You were a hit," Mr. Maler declared, patting George soundly on the back. "I've heard numerous people tell me what a treasure I have in you."

"Thanks," he muttered, his mind still far away. He glanced over at Susan, checking to see if she was still there. Often, during the party, George would look around the room. He wanted to make sure that Susan didn't run off – he certainly didn't want to go without an explanation from her. He had felt paranoia the entire unveiling, worried that she would walk away and not tell him a thing.

"Something bothering you, son?"

"No," he quickly brushed aside, diverting his gaze back to Mr. Maler. "It was all great, Mr. Maler."

The owner gave him a wary look, them smiled and walked into his office. "I have a few lucrative offers on the table – we'll sort them out tomorrow."

George nodded, fidgeting with his hands. His nerves seemed to overcome him – he wished that this endless feeling of edginess would go away.

Mr. Maler closed his door, and George heaved a sigh. He locked eyes with Susan, this time able to stand her cold gaze. All he wanted now was answers – answers to the questions riddling his mind and body.

"Well?" he said.

"Well?" she countered, sitting down at her desk. "I suppose you want me to give you those answers, now." Her voice was plain and simple, devoid of contempt. "Although, from the sound of it, you need to give me a few answers in return."

"Just tell me everything about your sister," he replied, pulling up a chair.

Susan sighed, tapping her fingers on the desk. She stopped, and brought her eyes up to him. "Well, her name's Lucy. You know that, though. Lucy Pevensie. She was seventeen when she died." The words were thick on her lips, heavy and hard to say. George quietly listened. He knew better than to interrupt.

"It was late summer, in 1949. She was saying good-bye to some family friends at the Kent-Winston station, when the accident happened – you heard of it, didn't you?" Her voice was growing even thicker, her eyes glazing over. George nodded.

"Well, that's about it." She leaned back into her chair, drained from the tale.

George tapped his thumbs together, keeping quiet. "How do I know you're not lying?"

She turned to look at him, her eyes glowing. She quickly sat upright, reaching for a drawer in her desk. She rooted furiously through it. Finally, she pulled out a thick, well-sized frame, encasing a black-and-white photograph. Susan thrust the picture into his hand.

A smiling, happy family looked back at him. They were laughing and grinning, joy exuding from them. A mother and father sat in the middle, touched by wrinkles and gray hair. Four children surrounded them, all young and eager. George felt his stomach drop, however, when his eyes landed on the youngest girl.

There, sitting on the grass, was Lucy. She wasn't much younger, maybe fifteen, sixteen at most. Her bright eyes were looking up at him, those warm, lovely eyes. There was no doubt in the resemblance now – she looked every bit of Susan.

George swallowed, his throat rough. It was as if she had stolen his words, taken them away with this simple act of handing him a photograph. His hands started to shake, and he had to try his hardest to keep from letting the photo slip.

"When was this taken?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"Nineteen forty-eight. I was nineteen then – Lucy was almost sixteen."

"You're lying," he muttered.

"Why would I lie about something like this? Why would Lucy lie about something like this?" Her voice was controlled, but underneath, George could hear the contempt.

"How do I know you're not?" He felt desperation rise through his body. It couldn't be true – no, it couldn't be –

"Lucy lives in Finchley. She has three siblings, Peter, Edmund, and me, Susan. Our parents names are Elissa and George. We were sent away to the countryside during the war," Susan quickly rambled.

"But she's only seventeen. She couldn't have been –"

"She's dead, George," she reiterated coldly. George stared at the picture, the words stuck in his throat, his mind clouding. He knew that this couldn't be true – it couldn't be.

"But I've talked to her, touched her – Susan, how could someone so physically real to me be dead?"

"I don't know! How do I know you're not lying, playing a sick joke on me? My sister's been dead for years – why would she be up and about, healthy and talking to you? She couldn't have been alive all these years – I saw her dead." She knotted her hands in her lap, upset. She sounded honest, but there was only one thing that could prove her right…

"What do you know of Narnia?" he asked, still staring at the picture.

"Narnia?" She grew tense at the sound of the word.

"Yes. There's this land she's always talking about, called Narnia. Do you have any idea what it is?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied harshly, "it's probably just another one of Lucy's childish games." She stood there, tense and breathing heavily. George looked up from the photo, and, for a moment, caught a glance from her glistening eyes. They were wide and intense, full of a dark emotion George couldn't quite place. She soon brushed him off, turning away quickly and heading for the door. He didn't go after her, stunned by her harsh reaction.

It seemed like George was sitting there for hours, looking at the picture. There was no mistake, he knew – the girl in that picture was Lucy, from her crooked smile to her long, awkward limbs.

_Of course, who's to say that this picture's from 1948 anyways? There's no marking on it that says otherwise. It could simply just be Susan being sensational. No other reason for it,_ he concluded, weakly. Every time he tried to finish the subject and put it away in his mind, he would find himself doubting. That awful sinking feel never seemed to leave him, no matter how hard he tried.

He placed that photograph on Susan's desk, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door. The sky was a dark, ominous color of gray, hinting at a storm. A swirl of cold air brushed by him, sending shivers down his spine. As he walked home, his mind continued to wander back to Lucy, until he found himself more muddled down than before.

_How can she be dead, if she's so alive to me? _he asked himself, as he turned the key to his front door. His dank little flat seemed cold and sterile, offering no answers as he collapsed on his bed.

_Maybe I'm going insane. It sure does feel like it, _he sighed, shaking his head. As he lay back on his bed, he felt no rest – just constant unease of the same questions replayed through his mind that night.

_______________

The next few days were the stormiest in March that London had recorded in years. Rain flooded the town as people clutched desperately to their umbrellas. The streets were teeming with cars and devoid of people. Those who went about in the fierce weather were considered mad.

A brief respite from the nasty conditions came with open arms. Though the sky still bore an ominous gray color, people walked about as if it was the middle of May.

George trudged through the streets, his eyes down in thought. It had been a week since Susan had told him that Lucy was dead. A week, and he had yet to return to Maler's Gallery. He knew that there was business there to attend with _Lucy, _but he couldn't bear to see Susan again. She wouldn't be smug – no, Susan wasn't a person to be smug. Instead, it would be awkward from start to finish. She left so many answers unsaid, kept things from him. How could he possibly talk to someone who was hiding the truth?

He hadn't painted since the completion of _Lucy_. He felt no urge to paint, either. No need to paint for money, nor for inspiration. Whenever he picked up a brush, there was only one thing on his mind, the bright girl who was suddenly thrust into the dark.

He found himself in Hendon Park, wandering aimlessly through the lanes. The grass was mucky and marshy, flooded with water. His shoes squeaked with each step, high and whiney. He didn't know what to do with himself – he felt content to wander about, as he used to do.

"I'm sorry, sir," a soft voice said, as he bumped into her. George froze, recognizing its warmth and vitality right away.

"Lucy?" he looked up, to see the young girl swathed in her usual yellow coat. She smiled brightly at him.

"Well, George, it's been a while! How have you been?" She reached out her hand, trying to shake his. George reluctantly followed, before tucking it back into his pockets. Lucy's brows furrowed.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he quietly murmured, still walking briskly.

"Oh." She walked quietly down the path with him, looking up at the clouded sky. "What did Mr. Maler think of the painting?"

"He liked it."

"That's all? It was really wonderful. I'm surprised he didn't give a bigger reaction to it."

"Well, he wasn't the only one to react to it," George said, cross.

"Why are you so cold today, George?" Her golden gaze was looking into his eyes, so innocent, yet lying.

"Mr. Maler had a public unveiling for the painting a week ago, Lucy," he said, his voice steadied. He was trying his hardest to restrain the mounting anger that had suddenly risen in him.

"Oh, how was it?"

"Just fine. Lots of people showed up, said it was great. Although, there was one person there that seemed a lot more interested in the subject than the painting." His voice was quivering with every word. A look of fear and questioning became etched in her face. "Have you heard of a woman named Susan?"

Lucy's face instantly fell. With that sudden change, George knew that it was all the answer he was looking for. "Now, George –"

"She told me something very interesting. She said that you were her sister…and that you've been dead for six years." She stood, tense, every bone in her body on edge. One look into her eyes, and George would know. "Are you?"

"Well, it's –"

"Answer me: are you dead, or are you alive?"

She balled her hands, anxious. George felt the anger inside of him flare, her hesitancy maddening. It couldn't be true, yet right now, it seemed horribly so. She gently took him by the arm, her touch careful and sure. She pulled him over to a bench, sitting him down.

"It's a very complicated thing for me to answer, George."

"Well, it's a very easy question, Lucy – you're either dead, or not. Can't mistake one for the other," he snidely said.

She bit her lip. "I was sent by Aslan – you know, from Narnia – to help you. He said that it was very important, and that it would affect people in more ways than one, and that there was a lot on the line –"

All of those suspicions, all of those doubts that seemed to have piled up through the past few months came rushing back to him. It was so obvious now – the lack of appetite, the strange glances she attracted, the contradictions in her story – she couldn't be real. It had to have been a ruse, a game she played for fun.

"A lot on the line? What is this, a game?" he asked, getting to his feet. Lucy looked up at him in horror, realizing the awful truth she released. "Are you just some girl who thought that it would be fun to mess around with some pathetic painter?"

"No, George, you know that I would never do that."

"Really? Then how can you be talking to me, touching me, if you're dead?" People were beginning to stare at them, at a man arguing with himself.

"I told you, it's complicated –" she twisted her hands in her lap, the same as Susan.

"Death isn't very complicated, Lucy."

"But, it's because I'm supposed to help you, make you believe –"

"Not anymore of this God bull, Lucy –"

"George, please, be reasonable –"

"I am reasonable! You're the one who has been acting the part the last six months! Playing me for a fool. I would never suspect someone like you to be a liar, of all things –"

"George, please, I'm not lying! Just sit down and listen to me –"

"I've had enough of your stupid pratter, Lucy. You've taken advantage of me enough. Good riddance to you," he declared, turning quickly on his heel. The sky opened up as he walk away, casting a fierce, late winter snow over the land.

______________

Note: Thanks muchly to my beta, crazyelf22.


	13. Chapter 13

She stared into her freckled, tanned hands, still trying to comprehend what had happened. It had been long, so long since she had last seen him, and she still found herself in a daze. All she could think about was his harsh, cold words. He had hurt her deeply, wounding her with each accusation.

She was never one to lie. It was hard for her to ignore the truth. Honesty was something that came naturally to her, and she hated it whenever someone called her a liar. She remembered, with a heavy heart, when Susan called her a liar. A liar perpetuating a lie.

_Susan_.

Her sister had been in the back of her mind all of her time on Earth, but now she was suddenly at the forefront, haunting her like a memory. How could she have forgotten her sister?

_Well, I _am _just a lie to her, _she thought, bitterly. She was no longer a part of Earth, a part of Susan's 'truth.' No, she was a Narnian, a part of the 'lie' she so loved. Lucy hated the gap between her and her sister, the one belief that made everything so difficult to understand.

_Why must this one thing come in between so many of the things we believe? _

It had been too difficult to explain to George – no, too difficult to _believe_. She knew the day was going to happen, the day she would have to explain the unexplainable to him. She would have preferred a warning, a sign, some sort of semblance telling her to prepare. But that was never Aslan's way.

**Good riddance to you**.

"Well, good riddance to you, too, George Duncan!" she yelled into the wind. The fields in New Narnia may have been peaceful, but Lucy found no comfort in them. She flung herself down under the shade of the tree she clung to.

She didn't know what she was going to do now. Was the mission over? She certainly couldn't go to George when he was so distressed, and under the impression that she was hiding something from him.

_But I certainly didn't go through all of this trouble for nothing. Oh, Aslan, why must the answers be so hard to find?_

She rolled her head back, against the trunk of the tree. It felt sturdy and cool, something tangible for her to grasp. She felt a heavy, dark feeling inside of her, and for the first time since her mortal life, Lucy felt sad. And in a place of eternal happiness, Lucy knew that this was not meant to be.

_No, that doesn't work. It's too gray, too angled. How the hell am I supposed to get this right?_

George felt like throwing his palette out the window. Try as he might, the bold, golden colors in his hands never seemed to appear correctly on the canvas. He was trying to paint for the first time in a month, and the results were horrible. He wanted to make the grand, sweeping, glowing arches of the Narnian castle that Lucy described. But they came out dank and muddy, without life or color to them.

He looked out the window, at the cold, colorless sky. The early, fierce spring storms never seemed to end. It had been raining for the past few weeks nonstop. George ventured only once out of his apartment, to talk over his arrangements with Mr. Maler. _Lucy_, as it turned out, was bought by a prominent London Art museum. The sum was enormous, but George found little happiness from the money offered to him. It was blood money, money made from the portrait of a dead girl.

_Or whatever she is,_ he thought, bitterly. He hadn't seen her since he had yelled at her in Hendon Park. His anger had since cooled, leaving him with a sense of regret. He didn't mean to go off on Lucy – he rarely ever yelled like that at someone. But for some reason, he found himself angry at her. Angry for not telling him the truth.

_But the truth is so hard to discern with her sometimes_. She couldn't possibly be dead, but it seemed to be the only real answer. Of course, he had heard of ghosts and their stories, but he never believed them. Ghosts weren't real – no, they couldn't be. Nothing that is dead could become alive again.

He shook himself out of his reverie, and turned back to his painting. The castle was high on a cliff, overlooking the sea. So far, he could only get the cliff. Its jagged, angular crags were stark against the whiteness of his canvas.

He swept some yellow paint onto his brush, trying to fill in the charcoal outline of the castle's buttresses. He brushed it along, trying to fill the space with its warm color. It ran thin, dripping into the charcoal, growing gray. He had mixed his paints too thin, too watery for the job of a base coat.

George looked at the runny, drab painting. It was a mess, through and through. There was no way to salvage it – there was only one thing to do with it. He picked it up and threw it into the stove, the fire crackling away. It was a waste of time and paint. _Lucy_ had ruined painting for him.

He leaned against the top of the stove, trying to think. His mind was just a jumble of words. He hadn't had a clear thought in ages. It was always tainted by her. He felt restless and uneasy, unable to stay in his house. It was too contained, too calm. He grabbed his coat and umbrella, and went for a walk.

The severe, steady fall of rain drenched the earth. George didn't know where he was going, or where he wanted to. He just wanted to walk, to get away from his flat and his paints. He looked down as he wove his way through the people, rushing about the streets.

He had walked for ages. He didn't feel hungry, nor tired. He walked through places that he knew well. He walked through places that he didn't know. Though he was now thirty and had lived in London all his life, George rarely went about town.

The sky was darkening as the streets became familiar. He knew that night was quickly coming, and, eventually, he was going to have to return home. His long walk did nothing to clear his mind. In fact, it only made him dwell on his situation, as his thoughts tumbled about through the streets, growing rougher and rougher.

He looked up, and realized, with a chuckle, that he had walked all the way to Maler's Gallery. The windows were dark, closing time approaching. Susan was standing outside, turning the keys to the door.

"Susan, stop," George impulsively commanded. She turned and looked at him, her gaze cold.

"What do you want now?"

"I haven't been able to put your sister out of my mind –"

"That makes two of us," she muttered.

"Please, Susan. I know that you hate me –"

"I don't hate you."

"Nevertheless, I know that you're not very happy with me. In spite of that, I would at least like some answers. You've told me so little about Lucy. Could you please, just tell me a little more?"

She pursed her lips, staring at the ground. The keys were in her hands, so tantalizingly close to the door. One little move and….

She thrust the keys into the lock, and George heaved a sigh. Maybe his aimless walking today would amount to something.

She flipped the switches on, the harsh electric light filling the hollow rooms. She sat back down at her desk, her stance tall and dignified. She had the air of a queen at her throne. "Sit down. You want some answers, I'll give them to you."

She pulled open her drawer again and took out her picture, handing it to him. It was familiar now, the shock of seeing Lucy there amongst her family, alive and well. It was Susan, however, that drew him in this time. He hadn't noticed before, but she wasn't smiling. Instead, she wore a pained look, one that seemed distant and withdrawn.

"That picture was taken the summer before the accident. It was around that time that I broke off relations with my family."

George stared at the picture. The news was a shock to him – never once had Lucy said that there was any sort of tension in her family, nor that Susan had broken off from her family.

"I trust from your reaction that Lucy never told you this?" she said plainly.

"No…she always made it seem like you were happy."

"Ah, well, every family has their conflicts. Everyone has that rebel. I suppose I'm the one that fits that bill," she glumly stated. "My family and I were close, until a few months before that picture. For years I had struggled with my faith, but it wasn't until I declared the fact that I was an atheist that my family finally disowned me. You may find that strict, George, but religion was very important in my family. To declare myself an atheist was like saying I was not a Pevensie. Impossible."

"What happened when they disowned you?"

"I moved out. Got a flat and a job. Went out to parties during the weekends. I sometimes went to family functions, like that picture. It was Edmund's birthday. They were always so dreadfully awkward," she said, plainly.

"You were the second oldest, right?"

"Yes. I'm twenty-seven right now, twenty-eight in September. Lucy would have been twenty-four this year."

George nodded, staring at the picture. She was a real person, no figment of his imagination. But she certainly couldn't be a ghost…could she? That wasn't logical. "She mentioned something about working at a bakery –"

"Oh, yes. You know the Buskin Bakery on Race Street? Lucy worked there for a year or two after she graduated. She was never really happy there – she wanted to be a teacher or do social work. My parents wouldn't allow it, though. They believed that only men were meant for the job force. Women should only take small, part-time jobs at most. I was a secretary for a while at a little business."

"What did your brothers do?"

"Peter – he's the blond one – he was training to be a minister. He always liked being in charge of people. He would have been…my gosh, he would have been thirty."

"The same age as me," George whispered.

"Hm?"

"Nothing. What about the dark-haired one, Edwin or something?"

"My brother Edmund was thinking of becoming a professor or some sort. Mum and Dad weren't that rich, though. He settled for a course in biology. Mum was really hoping he would be a doctor. He never made his mind up before the crash." She drummed her fingers on the desk once again, trying to discern her thoughts.

"Our parents, George and Elissa, had us a few years after they were married. Mother was living at Oxford when Father was a student there. It wasn't until they were near thirty that they had Peter. They moved to Finchley soon afterwards." She looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to remember something. "My parents were the sweetest people, but they were always strict. I think that's why my break-off with my family was so rough. They weren't used to having someone rebelling against them."

"What did your father do?" George asked, curious. He was always interested to hear about other people's parents, considering his lack of ones.

"My father was a tutor at Oxford. Hired on to help students, critique their papers and such. It wasn't a very lucrative job, but it did have some perks. When I was fourteen, Father went to America for the summer. He took me and Mother with him. It was such a lovely time." She slipped silently into a reverie, looking out of the window.

"My parents died when I was young, only one. I wish I had a memory of them," George quietly replied, rubbing the frame of the picture.

"Sometimes it's better not to have memories," she vaguely replied, still looking out.

George bit his lip, unsure. He would have given anything to know the touch of his mother's embrace, the warm tone of his father's voice. But there was nothing. Nothing to remind him of pain, but nothing to grief.

"You know, I never made up with my family. That day, the day they died, I was going to try, to meet them for tea. But the accident happened," she sighed.

He put the picture back on Susan's desk. He had seen enough of it to know exactly how many freckles graced Lucy's face, or the size and shape of the dark-haired brother's dimple.

"No more questions?" she asked.

George sat, pondering whether to ask her the one thing she had yet to bring up. It was worth one try, at least. After all, she did promise answers, and that was the one thing left unsaid. "What about that Narnia she talks about?"

"I have no idea what that is," she sharply stated. He glanced at her, briefly. She had a look of annoyance across her face. She clearly knew, she just preferred to leave it unsaid.

George stood up, knowing that he was unwanted. One question, however, still hung in his mind. "Susan, I do have one real question left for you."

"What?"

"Is Lucy real? I mean, did she live, and breathe? For it's very hard for me to believe that someone who is dead is coming back to me, talking to me."

"Of course she is. But whether that was she you saw or not, I don't know. I personally don't believe in such things," she concluded, putting away her picture. She was brisk and prim, back to business. "Are you done?"

George tapped his thumbs together, frustration running through him. She knew about Narnia, clearly. She just refused to tell him anything. And so she left one question unanswered.

"Yes, Susan, I suppose." He stood up and left, still unsure and restless as before. The sky was still the same, dreary color of gray as he walked into his flat, slipping into bed. Sleep never came to him, as he wondered the whole night through.

Note: Thanks once gain to all of my lovely readers. The story now has over 3,000 hits!


	14. Chapter 14

"Hello, Susan," George civilly greeted. The secretary looked up and nodded at him in acknowledgement.

It had been two weeks since Susan told George the story of her family. It left their interactions strained, to say the least. Sometimes they barely acknowledged each other. It was as if they were friends who had drifted apart, unsure of how to respond to the other.

"Having a good day?" he politely asked.

"Yes." She returned quickly to her work, ignoring him.

Susan treated him with a brisk, off-handed attitude as before. George treated her the same. He felt a strange sort of pity for Susan as well as for himself. They were trapped in an impossible situation.

"Mr. Maler is ready to see you. You can go right in," she informed him.

He clutched his portfolio tighter to himself. He was seeing Mr. Maler regularly, like before, but found that none of his current paintings were selling, or even being bought by the owner. He had lost his muse, somewhere far off in another country.

_If that place even exists_, he thought, bitterly. He kept his head down as he entered Mr. Maler's office.

"Hello, George," the owner greeted.

"Hello," George murmured in return. He glanced about the room nervously, waiting for the owner to respond. Mr. Maler sat down in his squeaky desk chair. George jumped at the sound.

"Worried, George?" Mr. Maler asked.

"I don't know. I guess," he shrugged. He threw his portfolio on the owner's desk and took his coat off, wishing this appointment would just be over. A warm, squirming feeling developed in the pit of his stomach, an uncomfortable feeling that left him antsy.

"You seem very troubled," Mr. Maler noticed, as he walked over to his desk. "I haven't heard much from you about your new-found success. How is it?"

"Fine."

"I've got a few people who want to commission something with you in mind. Are you interested?"

"Depends on what they are." He knotted his fingers, examining the insides of his thumbs.

"A family wants you to do a portrait of their daughter – they liked what you did with Lucy. A company wants you to do a mural for their atrium – I told them I don't think you'd like to do that. Portraiture is much more your forte, and you've never done anything as large-scale as a mural before. There are a few other offers if you're interested –"

"As long as it's not too big of a job, I'm fine. Could you look over the new paintings that I have?"

"Yes, but – well, I was thinking that our appointments could be more focused on advancing your career and getting your footing. Not so much looking at your sketches and things."

"Just look at my new work and see what you think," the painter said.

Mr. Maler pursed his lips, nodding silently. A few lines creased his forehead. He knew that George had never been this adamant in getting his work reviewed before, and his sudden resolution was strange. He opened the portfolio and began to sift through the sketches and quick paintings. George looked up at the ceiling, trying not to look at the owner's face.

A thick, tense silence filled the room. George tapped his fingers together, trying not to let his nerves get the best of him. All he heard was the quick flick of Mr. Maler's hands as he slipped through the sketches.

George heard a soft thud, and tilted his head down. Mr. Maler had his hands knotted on his desk, his glasses folded up. His blue eyes looked worn and heavy. George swallowed, knowing the rough news ahead.

"George, I can't say this any better or nicer. In fact, these sketches are awful. What happened to your pictures of Lucy, of that foreign land?"

"I haven't seen Lucy in a month, Mr. Maler. Can't remember her face," he lied. Her eager, golden face was etched in his mind.

"Still, you couldn't do something in that vein? Why are you returning to city landscapes? You know that they do not suit you, nor do you draw them well."

"I can't think of anything else. Whenever I sit down to draw something, nothing comes up. I just sit there, looking at a blank piece of paper. Unless I look outside, I can't do a thing."

"You can't even draw one of those fauns or what have you?"

George shook his head. "It's just like I used to be. I sit down, and can't imagine anything."

Mr. Maler tapped out a rhythm on his desk. He unfolded his glasses and slipped them onto his face, assuming a serious look. George glanced down, expecting some blow to come.

"You say you haven't seen Lucy in a month?" the owner asked.

"Yes. Haven't seen or heard from her."

"Well, maybe that's part of your problem – your muse is gone. How can you function without your muse?"

"Well, like I did before, I suppose."

"That's not very well, George," Mr. Maler replied, getting up from his seat. "You can't go on drawing and painting like this – you'll kill your career before it even starts."

"Come on, I can't depend on my muse forever. If I do, I won't be able to function fully as an artist," George said, brushing off Mr. Maler's claims.

The owner walked over to the painter, and looked him in the eyes, earnestly. George felt an uneasy clutch happen in his stomach. He averred his eyes, unable to look up. "Look at me, George."

He nervously flit his eyes up, before concentrating on the space over Mr. Maler's shoulder. "To say a painter can't have a muse is like saying an artist of any kind doesn't need creativity. Now, come on, what happened to Lucy? Did she move? Did her parents disapprove? Did you have a quarrel?" George shifted uneasily in his seat. "Ah, so that's it. You quarreled."

"Well, it wasn't like a typical quarrel, Mr. Maler." George felt the weight of impossibility begin to bear down on him. It was awful trying to explain it to Susan – how was he going to explain it to Mr. Maler?

"There are such things as typical quarrels?" he chuckled in disbelief.

"No, I mean that the subject we fought over wasn't like one you'd expect." _Or even dream of._

"I'm a lot older than you, George. Trust me, I've seen many fights in my life. People argue over everything." He leaned against his desk, surveying the painter through his glasses.

George cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. He felt the words catch, trying to keep themselves from coming out. "You know of Lucy, of course. She's my model, my muse, as you say. She's a very lovely girl, but you've never met her, right?"

"Yes. Has she asked for privacy or something?"

"No. It's a little more difficult than that, to say the least. I'm sure that Lucy would be thrilled to meet you Mr. Maler, but she can't. She's dead."

The words, still so harsh, filled the room. George looked at Mr. Maler, trying to determine his reaction. Surprise was evident, yet there was something oddly stoic in his eyes as well. George waited to hear something, anything from the man before him.

"Dead, you say?" His voice was calm and tepid.

"As much as we are alive. Or, at least, that's what she says. I mean, how can she be dead, Mr. Maler? I've painted her, touched her. To say that she's dead is to say that I'm not real."

The owner crossed his arms, contemplation now playing across his face. "How do you know that you didn't just make her up?"

"I couldn't have just made her up. You knew me before Lucy – I could never have imagined something that large or detailed as a girl. Besides, all that she told me of her life was real."

"So she was a real girl, you know that for sure."

"Yes. She's Susan's – the secretary's - sister."

"Her sister? Did you know that before?"

"No. It wasn't until after the unveiling that I found out about this. I had never seen or heard anything about Lucy before I met her. She's real, Mr. Maler…yet dead."

Mr. Maler tapped his fingers against his arm. "When you say 'dead,' do you really mean she's not alive anymore?"

"She died six years ago in a train crash, the one at the Kent-Winston station, remember it?"

"That wreck was awful," Mr. Maler shuddered. "Susan told you this?"

"As soon as she saw the portrait of Lucy."

Mr. Maler bit his lip, looking down in thought. George wondered what was going through the owner's mind. Was it the same mix of incredulousness and disbelief? Or was he actually able to comprehend this muddle?

"So she was real?" he finally asked.

"At one time. Now she's just as good as a ghost," George sighed, looking into his hands.

"So what's so hard for you to understand?" he wondered bluntly. George shot his gaze up, astounded at the response.

"Mr. Maler, she's dead. How can she be up and about, talking to me? Unless I've gone mad," he dismissed.

"You haven't gone mad, George. What's so hard to believe about her being a ghost, like you said? Or maybe some sort of spirit, like an angel?"

George cocked his head, surveying the man before him. "Are you trying to say that you believe all of this? You believe that she's real, and some sort of spirit?"

"Yes, I do. After all, it's the only answer left. We've eliminated all other answers."

"What if she's a fake?" George quickly testified.

"What if she's not?" Mr. Maler fired back. George settled in his chair. "Why are you having such a difficult time with this concept, George?"

"For the same reasons that I painted all of London, Mr. Maler," he stated. "I believe in what I see. I always have. Nothing unseen or unexplainable has ever touched me. I've never had to explain away situations with God or something unseen. It was always explained through facts."

"So what about Lucy?"

"What about her?"

"Why is she dead, yet alive?"

"I don't know!" George exploded, jumping up from his seat. "Day after day, I've been asking myself that question. There's no logical way to explain it, unless I say that I'm going mad, which I'm beginning to suspect. She's ruined everything for me, Mr. Maler. I can't sleep, I can't paint, I can't do anything because of this impossible question." He knotted his hands, talking in a fervor. The weeks of pent-up frustration were starting to course through him, out of him.

Mr. Maler stared at him, oddly calm. George felt a small spark of fury, wishing that the unshakable owner would respond somehow. His staidness was disturbing.

"She's done a great deal for you as well, you know."

"Oh, please, not all of that about her portrait –"

"– I'm not just talking about that painting, George. When I first met you, I wondered how much longer you were going to bother with painting. You obviously weren't going anywhere, and you knew it. You would come in every week, with the same awful palette and style, and say two words to me. You were stagnant, artistically and personally. But you've grown so much since she came. Not just in your paintings, but in life. You smiled, talked to me. You weren't rotting away." The owner's soft, frank voice cut through George's hysterical state, calming him slightly. He felt his shoulders droop as Mr. Maler let his words run.

"But I didn't ask for her to come in and try to convert me –"

"Who says she was?"

"She would always talk about God and how she was sent on this mission. If there's one thing I hate, it's someone trying to convert me," George firmly said.

"You don't need to tell me twice," Mr. Maler ribbed. "But George, don't you see? She did, and you willingly complied."

The painter felt a small wave of shock radiate through his body. He looked at the owner, his kind blue eyes, so honest. It was true, all of it. Whether he knew it or not.

"That still doesn't explain her impossibility –"

"I think it does, George."

George shook his head, a sick feeling radiating through him. "No, I told you, that isn't possible –"

"Just like her." There was that one last option – it was all true.

_But it could be, _George thought. _When people die, they're gone for good. I know that better than anyone does. They don't just get up and walk about, as if nothing happened. I must be going mad._

_But she was real…she couldn't have been a hallucination._

"To say that it was God would be taking the easy way out. But, yet, what else is there?" George muttered. He rested his forehead in his palm, trying to comprehend everything. "Oh, God, I really can't be buying into that delusion, can I? It makes sense, but does that mean it's real? Of course not. She was just a dream." He began pacing the room.

"No she wasn't. And you know that," Mr. Maler quietly stated. His quiet reason, once so helpful, was now a deep annoyance. George wished that Mr. Maler wasn't so calm, so peaceful in such a tense time.

"What do you know?" George spat.

"Enough. Enough to know how you think," he countered.

"Well, you're obviously being ridiculous," the painter said, throwing his hands in the air.

"I'm being logical. You're being impossible."

"Impossible? Why, because I'm not listening to your nonsense?" He desperately wanted Mr. Maler to throw something at him, show some sign of emotion instead of calm.

"Now, because you're ignoring the truth. She's real, and so is everything she says, and you know it," Mr. Maler asserted, his voice growing tense. George could see a small spark of rage in the older man's blue eyes.

"But why now? Why would God do this to me now?" The younger man felt his rage cool, his annoyance fall.

"I don't know. But better to hear something from Him than nothing, right?" Mr. Maler softly said. "So many people would kill for this experience, this knowledge. Use it and enjoy it, George. You've just been given confirmation of the impossible."

George stopped his pacing, his knees suddenly weak. _He's real. Good Lord, He's real. Thirty years, and You're finally showing yourself. All of this, all that's been happening is because of You. All of those questions, all of those years of darkness, gone._

_Good Lord, there's something out there, something that planned all of this…all of me._

George closed his eyes, letting the sick feeling he had developed run its course. His stomach had fallen to the ground, leaving him empty. He felt his throat clench up, felt nauseated. He just wanted to run away. Instead, he stumbled to his seat, his body shaking.

Mr. Maler helped him to his seat, before leaning against his desk once more. George let the sickness and tremors run their course, before daring to look up at the old man. He still had the same unflappable look as before. How could he be so strong, so sure? George felt like a wreck, embarrassed at his sudden outburst and fit.

"Is it always this rough?" George croaked.

"Always. But isn't that how every endeavor is?" Mr. Maler replied.

"Who would've thought," the painter sighed. He felt tired, but, somehow, light. An immense worry was gone, lifted away from him. Lucy was real, and so was everything she said. "I'm sure you've never had someone go through a religious experience in your office before."

"No." He turned back and walked to his desk, gathering together George's sketches. "It certainly makes the rest of my schedule for today very dull." He handed the painter his folder, a rough smile on his face. George took his work and pulled his coat on, his strength beginning to return to him. He walked to the door, before turning around and looking back.

"Mr. Maler," he called. The owner turned to him and gave him a curious look. "Where do I go from here?"

"Wherever you feel drawn to, I suppose," Mr. Maler suggested. "Although, you could always apologize to Lucy. Poor girl's probably still upset after that argument."

George nodded, and walked out the door. He looked out the windows, up at the sky. The sun was struggling to come out, trying to fight the early spring cold.

He walked slowly out of the gallery, looking back at Susan. She still wore the same look of cold civility, still looked at him emptily. He tipped his hat to her, and nodded lightly in acknowledgement.

_Well, can't expect miracles to come overnight, _he sighed. He walked around London, unsure of where to go, lacking direction. But this time, instead of wandering to discover, George was wandering to appreciate. He felt like a victor, someone who had fought and won a great battle. Serenity as never before filled his body, while looking at the glowing gray sky.

He had lost track of time and location. He was somewhere in Finchley, he believed, though he could have drifted into Barnet. The buildings were familiar yet vague. He milled through the crowd, letting the busy people pass him.

He managed to walk back to his flat, somehow. The sky had cleared, the sun golden and glowing in the sky. Not a single cloud or obstruction to block it. He walked to the window of his flat, and looked up at the sky. Never before had the sky seemed so blue or beautiful.

He turned away, looking back over his flat. Paints and scraps of canvas littered the floor still, but his flat remained the cleanest it had been in months. His eyes settled on a sketch that he had done earlier, and he immediately picked up the pad of paper. It was the shape of a building, any building, in London. He ripped off the sheet, picked up a pencil, and began a new sketch.

* * *

Note: Thanks so, so much to my betas for this chapter, crazyelf and Jeff. This chapter was just awful to write, but with their guidance, they made it the best it could be. Thanks, you guys. You have no idea how grateful I am right now for your help.

I'm so sorry to keep this chapter so long, after promising not make you guys wait a month again. I was just in the throes of my last month of high school, but thankfully I just graduated and now I'll have more time to commit to this fic.


	15. Chapter 15

The safe, peaceful feeling that Aslan's breath gave her had waned by the time Lucy had surveyed her surroundings. She knew that she was going back to Earth for some unknown reason. George was probably still mad at her, but Aslan had sent her back. She was very reluctant to go, wanting desperately to avoid the awful situation she had gotten herself into, but the Great Lion knew better.

_This whole trip was a waste. George doesn't believe anything, and now I'm stuck trying to clean up this mess,_ Lucy sighed. She had gotten bitter at the thought of George. Once her good friend, he now was nothing more than a man who thought her crazy.

She blinked her eyes as the world came into focus. The usual sounds of people milling about were muffled. She hadn't landed on the sidewalk or among the streets of London, as she was used to. Instead, she found herself in the confines of a small, dank flat.

_Oh dear. How could I have ended up here? _She cast about nervously, realizing that she had arrived in George's flat. _I can't very well be found here – George would get angrier with me._

She walked quickly over to the door, wanting desperately to get away. She knew that there was only one purpose for her on Earth, but it had grown far too awkward and unattainable.

She closed the door behind her and started to walk down the stairs. She contemplated running away, but soon snuffed out the thought. She couldn't run away from him forever.

_I know that he wasn't happy that I'm dead, but what could I do? Tell him? Well, I suppose I _could _have, but when do you tell someone something like that? "Hi, I'm Lucy Pevensie, and by the way, I'm dead." It would have been perfectly fine had Susan not told him._

She sat at the bottom of the dusty stairs, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. _Susan. Of course, why didn't I see this coming in the first place? Susan would have found out about me eventually._

_I wonder if she's still a typist. She could be married, for all I know. She…well, I could be an aunt._

Lucy felt a twinge of shame run through her. How could she go all this time and only give passing thoughts to her sister? But she had trained herself this way, ever since Susan left the family. From then on, it was best to not think of Susan, lest she start crying and wish for other, younger years. The dim memory of Susan's separation, buried deep, resurfaced.

Lucy had been quietly reading in her room when the uproar started, and by the time she had finished the chapter, Susan had ceased to be part of the family. She remembered the quiet roll of her father's voice, and the soft yet firm pleads of her mother down in the kitchen. She had tried to bring her back, so many times, but each suggestion fell on deaf ears.

"Lucy?"

She felt her heart flutter nervously. That voice was all too familiar. She knew that she would see George again, but she wished that it would have been later rather than sooner.

"Yes, it's me," she confirmed, getting to her feet. She looked up briefly, and emitted a soft gasp.

George had gained weight since Lucy had last seen him, no doubt from having regular meals now. He wore nicer, better-fitting clothes and had his thin, charming smile on his face. He looked like a fuller, livelier version of the old George she had left behind.

"My, how you've changed, George. How long has it been?" she asked, wary.

"About a month and half, two months," he responded. His hands were clasped around his portfolio, as always. He scuffed his feet, looking down. A still, loaded silence passed between them. Lucy was unsure of what to say, whether to talk freely as before, or monitor her words lest she upset him. Finally, George cleared his throat. "Do you want a cup of tea to talk about things? Or, well, I suppose you can't take tea…" he trailed off. He bit his lip, unsure of what to say. "Why don't we just talk? Is my flat fine?"

"More than."

She found the sight of his flat to be not as threatening and worrisome as before. Rather, looking closer, it too had changed. Though rags of canvas and used paints still littered the floor, the place was cleaner. George had gotten rid of his aunt's sinking sofa, and had replaced it with a smaller, plumper one instead.

She walked in, unsure of how to proceed. Before she would have flopped on his sofa, chatting about something. But now she was treading on uncertain ground. They had returned to square one, strangers once again.

"I managed to clean up a bit while you were gone," he said, placing his hat on the coat rack. "Do you want me to take your coat?" She nodded, shrugging it off into his hands. "You can sit right down."

She walked over and sat down, this sofa more welcoming that its predecessor. She clasped her hands in her lap, waiting for him.

"Your painting has made me very successful, Lucy," he started, sitting next to her. "It's hanging in the Victoria and Albert. I'm getting many commissions. I really can't thank you enough."

She nodded politely. Her tongue was as knotted together as her hands.

His face fell at her seriousness. He clapped his hands together, looking for something to say. "It's a complicated mess we're in, isn't it Lucy?"

"Very," she complied.

He inhaled sharply, as if preparing himself for battle. "While you were gone, Lucy, I realized many things. Most of all, though, I realized that I was wrong to go off on you like that. You hadn't done a thing, and I was yelling at you for no reason. I'm sorry." She felt the weeks of resentment start to ebb away, slowly.

"You did tell me good riddance," she muttered. She could give forgiveness freely, but grudges were hard things to let go.

"And I had no right to," he replied, honesty clear in his voice.

She fiddled with her hands, letting his apology set in. "I suppose I should've told you –"

"I don't think my reaction would have been any different," he sighed. "Tell me the impossible, and I'll just get upset with you."

Lucy kept silent, wondering what George's sudden resolution meant. She hoped against hope that maybe, somehow, her message had gotten through. "I forgive you, George, but what does it mean? Do you believe in me? I mean, that I'm dead yet…here."

"Well, what other explanation is there? Insanity is always an option, but after what we've been through, I don't think that's plausible," he smiled. He pulled her right hand out of its knot, and held it tightly in his. "I want to thank you, most of all, though."

"For what?" she asked.

"For digging me out of that damned rut I was in. And for helping me believe," he said. His voice was quiet and gentle, so strange and foreign to him. Lucy looked into his eyes, and saw, for the first time, happiness in them.

_All of this time and worry was worth it. I did it._

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed by pleasantly, George and Lucy talking about Narnia to his conversion to everything in between. Lucy talked earnestly of her death and life on Earth, something that seemed so foreign to her.

"So all those years you lived in Finchley, and we never once met," George sighed.

"Strange how it all works out," she noted. The sun was setting in the sky, a ripe, glowing orange. It was sometime in April, and the sounds of birds twitting began to filter into the sounds of the city. There was a warmth and vibrancy in Earth that she hadn't seen in ages.

"Do you miss it? Earth, I mean." George's question snapped her out of her reverie.

"Not entirely. I mean, Earth was wonderful, when I was alive. But now that I'm in New Narnia, a paradise…well, Earth is just a dim shadow." She looked over to George and his questioning face, and she felt herself tense. "Of course, I do miss some things about it from time to time. You, for one. And Susan…." Her sister's memory left a small, bitter lump in her throat she tried desperately to swallow. "H-how did you meet her? Susan, I mean."

"She works at Mr. Maler's gallery as a secretary. She's been there since I've been going, for years."

"How is she? I mean, is she…happy?" She found herself flooded with questions, but she tried to control herself. She wanted to know everything, make up for all of the years of loss and absence.

"I really can't tell you, Lucy. We've kept our distance for years. It wasn't until you came that she actually said more than a sentence to me," George replied, simply.

"No family, friends, children?" She strangled the desperation creeping into her voice, longing for some sort of news on her sister.

"I really can't tell you," the painter sighed. Lucy balled her fists in frustration. If she could, she would have run out the door all the way to Mr. Maler's gallery at that instant. But she knew better. Susan probably couldn't even see her. But she would have given anything to see her sister again, to make everything settled.

She felt the same, gentle tug on her as she had once before. She sighed and stood, knowing that she would have to leave George again after being away for so long. "I must be on my way, George."

"Will I see you again?" He followed her to the door, helping her slip the coat on her shoulders.

"I hope so." She caught his hand and held it in hers for a moment, before breaking away. She looked up at the painter and smiled, his gentle eyes concerned. "Don't worry,'' she said, walking out the door. She felt the tug pull forcefully at her as she walked down the stairs.


	16. Chapter 16

"My, George, this is incredible," Mr. Maler exclaimed, looking over one of the two small paintings he brought. "This is so unlike your last few pieces. So bright and very yellow." The owner pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, examining the detail given to the gryphon.

"Yes, well, it seemed to be the only color that worked for the landscape I pictured. Besides, I used the same type of color scheme for when I painted _Lucy_, and look how well that turned out."

"You know that awful bunch you brought in a few weeks ago? That must have been a fluke or something. This…this is what you were heading for before, and it is fantastic," Mr. Maler exclaimed. His eyes lingered over the second painting, of a large, golden lion, before reverting back to George. "Your muse hasn't left you. In fact, I'd say that it's in full swing."

George smiled knowingly. With his frustration and anger gone, he had never been so inspired and productive. All of Lucy's grand descriptions of Narnia fueled his imagination, made him paint furiously to capture it on canvas.

"Yes, well, I apologized to the girl, Lucy," he said.

"Oh, yes. Did she take it well?"

"Oh, she was very happy when I apologized. Seems the whole row made her just as miserable as me," he admitted. "She's visited me a few times since then."

"Do you feel that's it's still crazy and impossible?" Mr. Maler asked, handing George his payment for the two paintings.

"Every once in a while, I have a few passing realizations that I'm talking to a ghost. Then I forget about it," he replied, taking the payment.

"Sometimes you have to believe in a few impossible things to keep sane," the owner replied, knowingly. "Now, have you visited the Victoria and Albert yet? I have, and I must say it is thrilling to see one of my painters hanging in one of England's most prominent museums."

"Oh, yes, with Lucy. She's was so thrilled. She couldn't believe that she was the inspiration for such fuss," George replied, brought back down to earth. "It was sort of surreal, you know. All of these years without even one of my paintings hanging in someone's spare room, and now I'm some sort of ingénue. Some people have even started pointing me out when I'm walking down the street."

"Mind you, don't let all of that success go to your head, boy," Mr. Maler reminded.

"Oh, it's too strange to even try to comprehend, Mr. Maler. I'm a bona fide artist now. I can't say it without laughing." He felt a wide, goofy smile grace his face as he gathered his things and headed for the door.

_George Duncan, artist. Nope, still sounds wrong. I don't think I could ever get over this, _he thought, as he left Mr. Maler's office.

He headed for the door, spotting Susan out of the corner of his eye. He kept his gaze down, his giddiness gone. He had yet to talk to her since his fight with Lucy, and had kept his distance from her. It was awkward, trying to avoid her and the looming subject of Lucy, and he knew they couldn't keep on like this. He had contemplated talking to her whenever he came, but his nerves would get the better of him and he would back out.

_Avoiding her isn't going to solve anything, _he thought, trying to rationalize the situation.

_Then again, it's a lot easier than trying to talk to her, _he countered, as his nerves began to flutter. He swallowed as he wrapped his hand around the doorknob. Turn around and say something, or keep on walking forward and save the conversation for another day.

He turned the knob and walked outside, his nerves settling down, as well as his heart. He had grown used to this experience, but he still hated the feel of it.

He kept on walking, though he felt his pace slow down with each step. He really couldn't avoid her anymore, no matter how hard he tried. He was going to be beating himself up for the rest of the day for not talking to her, and he loathed theidea. He was done with it; he had done enough self-loathing for a lifetime.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder, checking to see if she was still inside or not. He felt his nerves stir up again as he saw her walking out the door, slinging her sweater over the crook of her arm.

"Susan," George called back, turning around. It was now or never – certainly he wouldn't even dream of doing something like this again.

"Yes?" she replied.

"Do you mind if I walk you home? I mean, it's such a nice day out, and it would be a shame not to enjoy it with someone." He held his breath, half hoping she would reject him, half hoping she wouldn't.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" she questioned, tilting her head in disbelief.

"Oh, no. Good gracious, no, I didn't think of it like that. Just a nice walk between friends or acquaintances or whatever you like," he babbled, feeling his cheeks color. He had never been very good with talking to girls. "I mean, you don't have to. If you have a sweetheart and you don't want him to get the wrong idea I totally understand –"

"Oh, no. It's fine. I just haven't had someone ask me for a walk since secondary school." A small smile graced her face, not unlike Lucy's. She walked over to him, clutching her purse in her hand. He wondered if he should offer her his arm, but decided not to, the gesture too forward.

The weather had grown significantly warmer in the past few weeks. George found himself leaving his coat behind more often as he went outside, enjoying the warmth of the spring sun and the disappearing clouds and snow.

"It's absolutely lovely outside, isn't it?" he sighed, breathing in deeply.

"It's certainly a nice break after all of the storms last winter," Susan replied, keeping her eyes low.

"Do you still live in Finchley? I mean, your sister did before the…" George bit his lip, cursing his ineptitude.

"No. I moved out of my parents' house when I was eighteen," she said, unaffected by George's lack of subtlety. "I moved to this little flat in Barnet that I'm still living in. I'm going to be moving in a couple of weeks, though."

"Oh, to be closer to your job?"

"No. The rent's too expensive for me now," she said, brusquely. George blushed, once again cursing his blunder. He never was good at starting conversations.

"Is it just you? Or do you have a flatmate or a sweetheart or something?" He knew that this conversation was going down in flames very quickly, yet still he tried to continue it.

"No, not anymore. I prefer a quieter life, you know."

He nodded, trying to think of something else to say. The long, long walk to Barnet seemed to stretch on endlessly as George found himself fumbling for something to say. This was why he never particularly liked meeting new people – those strange, awkward silences almost ruined the close, intimate conversations down the line.

"You know, I really don't know if you prefer a quieter life or not," he said, without thinking. Susan shot him a wary glance out of the corner of her eye. "Well, I mean, we haven't really talked before – just you telling me when Mr. Maler's ready to see me. Not much else."

She nodded in return, contemplative. George sighed, knowing that he had shot himself in the foot for about the fourth time in fifteen minutes. "I was never one for getting much beyond a formal greeting," she finally replied. "Lucy was always the charismatic one."

"She does like to talk to strangers, doesn't she?" he smiled.

"Mum would always worry that she would get herself kidnapped or something for being so friendly. Peter would brush it off, saying that she was scrappy enough to fight off anyone," she said, wistfulness in her voice. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Peter's your older brother, right?" he asked.

"Yes. He would have turned thirty this year, in August," she said. Her voice had grown soft once again, as it always had when she had gotten stuck in a reverie. He knew the nerve he had struck with mentioning her siblings, but her felt a slight twinge of envy at Susan's painful memory. She had a whole grown family to mourn, sister and brothers and cousins. He just had his young, unmemorable parents.

"I bet he was an amazing brother," George said, envious.

"Yes, well, he was," she replied, harshly. She straightened her posture, dismissing the subject.

"I'm sorry if I been a bit forward with you, Susan," he muttered, trying to atone for his mounting embarrassment. Forcing extroversion was never a good idea.

"Oh, there's nothing to apologize for. I'm being just a little sensitive, that's all," she replied, reasonable as ever. "If anything, I should apologize to you. I acted so atrociously at your unveiling – I probably ruined the whole thing for you, didn't I?"

_Well, yes, _he thought. "There's no need to apologize–"

"Nonsense. If there's one thing I learned, it's that if something makes you feel upset, you probably did something wrong and need to atone for it," she crisply stated. "Truly, though, I shouldn't have told you about Lucy then. I lost all sense of tact when I saw that painting."

"Oh, you handled it better than I did," George said, thinking of his outburst with Lucy.

"Well then, let's agree to forget about it then, shall we?" she suggested. She stopped abruptly in front of an old, worn brick building. "Well, my flat's in here. I'd invite you up, but my gossipy old neighbor's home today."

"Oh, I understand," George replied, blushing at the thought. He bit his lip, wondering what sort of good-bye an acquaintance gives another after a walk. He stiffly held out a hand to her, and she chuckled, taking it. "Good-bye, Susan. See you next Thursday."

"See you," she replied, pulling away. George turned on his heel and sighed, a strange mix of relief and reluctance filling him. "Oh, George?"

He turned back around, wondering what she could possibly want. "Yes?"

"Um, I'm sorry, but I was just wondering – could you help me next weekend? I'm planning on moving out then. My friend Joan is coming, too, but I don't think that'll be enough help. It's going to be a Saturday morning, if you don't mind."

He bit his lip, contemplating. Sure, they had Lucy and the art gallery in common, but did that mean they were friends now? Then again, she wasn't too bad of a woman – sensible and smart, and always keeping a respectable distance. She wasn't the bright, bold girl her sister was, but she held a quiet dignity, a self-respect and poise not found in most women. Despite his many fumbles, George actually enjoyed his walk with Susan. Maybe helping her wouldn't be so bad.

"Oh, sure, sounds fine," he replied. She thanked him quickly and went inside, as he turned back for Finchley.

* * *

Note: I know, I know, I went a very long time without an update, but I promise I will finish this story, even if it takes me years. I have it all planned out, it's just a matter of my brain cooperating with me.

On some brighter notes, I want to thank all of my kind readers who have written reviews for me! Last chapter I hit over 100 reviews, making this my first story to accomplish such a feat. I'm so extremely grateful for everything you've said, whether it be long or short, detailed or not, good or bad. Also, thanks for the lurkers as well - the story had also reached over 5,000 hits last chapter.

One last thing before I go - after a few months of planning and thinking, I finally wrote and uploaded my companion piece to this story, _Singing Songs in a Foreign Land_. Though you don't need to read it to understand this story, it is meant to give depth to a character whose back story I could quite fit in, Mr. Maler. _Singing Songs in a Foreign Land_ is about Mr. Maler's life in pre-WWII Germany, his decision as a Jew to move to England, and how the painting of the _Dawn Treader_ came to be. Some of you have read it, but for those who haven't I just wanted to do some self-pimping to let you know.


	17. Chapter 17

There had been a few moments during the walk over to Susan's flat that George wondered whether he should turn back. Maybe it was all a joke – people tended to do things like that to him.

_But it's Susan, _he thought, banishing the idea. _She's too dignified to stoop to something as childish as a prank._

He assumed that Susan must have asked him to help move because he looked muscular enough, though George laughed at the thought. He never had much physical prowess. In the back of his mind, he felt a sneaking suspicion that maybe it was Lucy that drove Susan to ask for his help.

_If only she could see her._

The Saturday morning was warm and crisp, spring suddenly making its appearance. No longer did he have to bring his cumbersome coat outside. Instead, he walked about in a light jumper, no gloves or scarf adorning him.

Susan's flat house was a nice, welcoming building, brick and mortar, a few stories high and narrow. It was certainly in better shape than his flat house. The landlady lived in the first room on the right, a vast room filled with old, Victorian furniture and overstuffed pillows. She had a plain face and simple, modern clothes, a very nondescript entity compared to the elaborate decorations that filled her room.

"You're here to see Miss Pevensie?" she questioned, a disbelieving look in her eyes.

"Yes. Is she out?" He shifted from one foot to another, keeping his eyes down.

"Oh, no. It's just that she has so few callers anymore, especially gentlemen. She is such a reserved girl," she replied, fluffing pillows. "She's in room six, upstairs and three down the right hall."

The flat house was well-lit and clean, pretty and presentable. The brass six nailed on Susan's door gleamed, bright against the dark polished wood. It was sure to give someone a good first impression.

_It must be tearing her apart to be leaving such a nice place, _George thought, as he knocked on her door.

A few seconds passed, then a few minutes. George bit his lip, cursing himself for believing that Susan had been serious with her offer. He turned on his heel, ready to walk away, when he heard the sound of the door lock clicking open.

"Oh, George, I'm sorry for taking so long to get to the door. I wasn't expecting you for another fifteen minutes," she breathlessly said.

"Sorry, I gave myself some time in case I got lost on the way here," he replied, an embarrassed blush creeping into his cheeks. He walked back, keeping his eyes down.

"Well, glad to see you made it here just fine. Come right in."

He took a few hesitant steps inside. "You can sit right down. I was making some dinner. Have you eaten yet?"

"Oh, no."

"It's not very big. A soup and some cold sandwiches. I hope you don't mind," she called from over her shoulder, as she walked off.

George stood in the room, looking at the surroundings. Boxes were stacked on the floor, a few feet high, lining the walls. Furniture still decorated the room, old and worn, with a slight musty smell, like memories of long ago, lingering in the air. He stood still, apprehensive of whether to sit in the well-worn furniture or not. It was not pert and perfect, but there was something about the used, damaged wares that seemed holy, shrine-like.

"Sorry about today, by the way," Susan called from the kitchen, the smell of cooked beef and stewed vegetables filling the air. "Joan helped pack up my clothes and things, but she couldn't make it this morning to help move the boxes and furniture. I hope you don't mind, it just being you and me."

"Oh, no," George lied. He certainly didn't like the idea of spending the day alone with a woman he barely knew. But he was here, and little could be done now.

"Joan's brother's sick and laid up in bed, and he needed someone to look after him. She's such a nice girl, I'm sure you would have liked her." George nodded silently, switching his weight from one foot to another. "You know you can sit down, George," she said, peering in the doorway.

"Oh, I'm fine," he replied. Susan smiled hesitantly.

"I'm almost finished, anyways. You can come into the kitchen, if you like. The table's all set up."

The kitchen was a huge contrast to the musty, old parlor. It was clean and well-lit, the furniture and stove new and modern. It was like walking into a display for a model house. A small table was set for two, with no centerpiece or bright flowers.

"You have a very nice flat," he complimented as he sat at the table.

"Thanks. My new flat's going to be a lot smaller," she sighed, stirring a tall pot.

"Are you going to sell off some of the furniture or things?" he asked, wondering how she was going to fit all of the large, grand old furnishing in an even smaller flat.

"Oh, no. They're my family's things. I couldn't leave them behind." She dished out some of the steaming soup, the soft swish the only sound in the air.

"I see."

"Did you sell your family's things?" Susan asked, as she set the food before him. Warm, savory smells wafted through the air.

"Yes. Well, my Aunt Shannon sold off some of their possessions to take care of their funeral and medical costs. I was only a baby when my parents died," he said. "I have a few things. Not too many, though."

"You never said much about your family. You probably know everything about my family, don't you?"

"No one really ever asks. I mention my aunt, and they just assume."

"What is she like, your aunt?" she wondered, as she sat across from him.

"She is a good woman," he replied, curtly. He had yet to talk to his aunt since their fall-out at Christmas, and preferred to leave it that way.

"Oh, yes. I know what those types of aunts are like," Susan muttered. She swirled her spoon through her soup, before looking up at him. "How did your parents die?"

George sighed, thinking of the one picture of his parents, a pathetic substitute for memories. "They died of pneumonia. I was one when it happened. It was the middle of January. First my father got sick. My mother was smart, and she sent me to my aunt, to make sure I wouldn't get sick while she nursed my father. But then my mother came down with it, and they died within two weeks." His throat had gotten strangely tight, his voice harsh. He tapped his fingers on the table, keeping his eyes down. Susan kept quiet, tense. He must have overwhelmed her.

He felt a soft pressure on his hand, and he looked up, to see Susan squeezing his hand. There was a gentle look in her eyes, so strange and foreign to her. George gave her a tiny, understanding smile. She returned the gesture.

As quick as it had come, Susan pulled her hand away and picked her sandwich up, taking a small bite. The moment had come and gone, hushed and tender and disjointed. "Joan let me use her car for today, that way we won't be using a cab or lugging it about the streets," Susan said, changing the subject as easily as one would change a pair of socks.

"Oh, yes," he replied, jarred by her sudden switch. "I must admit, I don't have a license."

"Don't worry. I do. I had a car for a few years. I had to sell it after the accident." She took a sip of water from the glass in front of her, poised. She had far too much practice with rolling the word 'accident' off her tongue.

They chatted lightly throughout dinner, with casual remarks of family and friends and stature. Compliments of food, dress, art, and décor were made, always with thanks given in return. Though George didn't feel awkward with Susan, he certainly felt her keeping a respectful distance between them. She never ventured past a few personal family questions, knowing her boundaries. She was polite and responsible, so different from her impetuous yet charming sister.

When the last clang of the spoon was heard, and the last dish washed and packed away, the two turned their minds to the task at hand. Susan pulled off her apron and quickly pinned her hair up with a twist of her wrist. She was dressed simple and clean, ready for the long work ahead of them.

"Now, we should probably start with the boxes first. They're lighter and easier to store. Then onto my furniture," she instructed, leading George down the hallway to her bedroom. It, too, had a wall of boxes. "We'll start here and move along to the other rooms."

All of Susan's boxes, from her bedroom to her parlor to her spare room and kitchen, fit tightly inside of her friend's car. The boxes were heavy but small, filled with clothes, shoes, trinkets and books, everything and anything found inside of a house. His arms grew heavy, tired of the loaded boxes. Susan carried them with some difficulty, yet she hid her pain well, never once complaining about their weight.

George found himself sitting with a box in his lap during the first trip over. His tall, lanky frame was squished and crammed into the small space. Susan, as tall as her sister, sat hunched over the steering wheel.

"It's not too far of a drive," Susan told, as she started the car and shifted into gear. The car jolted forward unpleasantly.

"Where are you moving to?" George asked, adjusting the unwieldy box in his lap.

"Whetstone," she replied, braking.

"That's not too far away."

"Yes. Means I'm even closer to Finchley," she said "I've only been to this flat twice before, so hopefully I won't miss it. I'm not one to get lost or forget, though."

The ride over was hushed, only broken up by Susan's attempts to relearn how to drive. The car would screech along, stopping and thrusting with each gear change. George found himself clinging desperately to the seat.

"Sorry, it's just been so long since I last drove," she said, through gritted teeth. George waved the apology away, hoping they would reach the flat soon.

After making a few turns and taking some narrow roads, they finally arrived at the flat house, with a great shudder. It was old, grim, and gray, and had seen far better days.

_Looks exactly like home, _George thought, as he stepped out of the car.

"I live on the second floor, so it won't be that awful bringing these up." She pulled out a box and wrapped her arms around it. "Take one and follow me."

The house didn't have the same warm, lived-in smell like Susan's old one. Rather, it was cold and moldy. It didn't fit Susan in the slightest.

"Ah, here it is. Number three," Susan announced, stopping at a door. She dropped her box on the floor and fished for her key in her pocket. "I know it's not the nicest flat, but it's cheap."

"Reminds me of my flat," George replied, eyeing a mysterious stain on the hallway wall.

"Then you should feel right at home." She gave him a joking, quick smile as she opened the door.

The flat was small, small as George's, and certainly just as plain. The walls were a stark white, no wallpaper or paneling to break the monotony. He felt an eerie sense of familiarity as he looked over the room.

"My bedroom is down that hallway, and so is the spare room." She dropped the box on the floor and walked down the hall. He gave another glance around the flat, before following her along.

They worked swiftly and silently, the weight of the boxes demanding. They spoke little, just a few comments here and there, a thanks and a sorry when needed. As quick as they had come they left, returning for the long haul – the furniture.

"Where do you want to start?" George asked, as he got out of the car.

"Let's start in my room. There are only a few things there," she replied.

Her bedroom, in comparison to her parlor, was filled with lighter furniture. Her small bed had a thin metal frame, easy to take apart and store away. She had a small night stand, wardrobe, and vanity, all made of flimsy wood. It was almost easier to move this furniture than it was to lift the boxes.

"I think I need a drink after all of that lifting," Susan declared as they dropped the mattress out in the hall. "Do you want a drink, George? Water?"

"Oh, no thank you," he declined.

"I'll be right back," she assured, walking to the kitchen.

George clasped his hands behind his back, letting his eyes wonder about the hallway. The spare room door was ajar, light pouring out from the crack. He eyed it curiously, wondering what was there. She never said anything about her spare room, and they didn't take any boxes out of it earlier.

He pushed the door open, sticking his head in the doorway. It was meant to be a quick peep, here and gone. Yet he wasn't expecting to see a large, magnificently carved wardrobe shoved in the corner.

He walked in slowly, keeping his eyes on the wardrobe. It was made of dark wood and was old, older than him. He remembered, faintly, of Lucy mentioning a wardrobe.

"George?"

He felt his heart snap into beat at the sound of Susan's voice. He had been sneaking around, and had been caught in the act. He blushed at the thought, as he turned to see Susan's golden eyes staring disappointedly at him.

"What are you doing here?" There was no rage in her voice. Rather, repression of something far more potent.

"I just got curious," he admitted, lowering his head in shame. "Where did you get this wardrobe?"

"It was from a family friend. He died in the accident as well," she said.

"Lucy talked about a wardrobe," he murmured, looking back at it.

"We used to play Narnia in it all the time when were younger – me and Lucy and our brothers. It seems they never wanted to stop playing." She kept her eyes down, smoothing out her skirt.

"She always mentions Narnia," George said. "She makes it sound real."

Susan lifted her eyes, her gaze watery and full. She bit her lip, looking over him warily. "You know George; I really don't understand why you, a total stranger, would be the one to see my sister again, and not me." She clenched her hands, trying so hard to keep her tears from falling over her eyelids. She turned away, flicking her fingers across her eyes. "Come on, we've got a lot to finish."

George felt his stomach sink, seeing how he cut open old wounds. He clamored after her, cursing his dumb curiosity. "I-I'm sorry, Susan. I shouldn't have wondered in here," he stammered.

"Don't worry about it. It's just a silly wardrobe. No harm done." She dismissed the feelings lightly, her voice carefree. "Now, let's get back to this mattress." She changed the subject with the greatest of ease, someone who could disregard the past with a single twist of her voice.

* * *

The sun was setting as Susan gave George a lift back to his flat. The rest of the move had been in quiet, few words said as the furniture was packed away and unloaded. Susan kept a thoughtful, plain look on her face. Her usually calm, focused demeanor became distracted, evident in the even jerkier drive to Finchley.

"Thank you so much, George," she coolly said, as they stopped before his building. "I couldn't have done this without you." She reached under her seat and pulled out her purse, rifling through it.

"Oh, don't worry, Susan," he brushed aside. "I'm sure you would have helped me."

She leaned over and took his hand firmly. George pulled away slightly, surprised at her sudden action. "Here." She pressed two pound notes into his palm.

"Susan, you don't need to give me this." He handed them back, shaking his head.

"You did all of this work for me – I feel like I owe you something."

"We're friends. We don't need to pay each other for favors," he stated, grinning at her. She smiled in return.

"Could you do one last thing for me? Promise I'll help you out somehow," she asked.

"Anything you want," he complied.

"I still need some help unpacking all of those boxes. Can you do that next Saturday, same time, at my new flat?"

"Sure," he agreed, as he stepped out of the car.

"Great. Good-bye, George," she waved.

"Good-bye."

He turned around and entered the house, walking up the stairs as he always did, in a reverie. Certainly it had been a strange day, full of long, awkward silences and repressed emotion. But for one, strange moment, he felt a connection with Susan, when she let her feelings show. He knew well enough, though, that people never let painful feelings show for long.

"Hello, George!"

George felt his heart skip at the sound of the cheery, bright voice. He looked over, to see Lucy standing in front of his door, glowing and expectant.

"I was starting to worry that you weren't ever going to come home," she smiled, as he walked over to her. "Where have you been all day?"

"Helping a friend move," he replied, as he unlocked his door and stepped inside.

"Oh. Was it fun?" She followed him, flopping on the couch.

"It was exhausting, to say the least. I'm helping her next week."

"Her? Do you have a lady friend, George?"

"Hardly," he replied, pouring himself a glass of water.

"What's her name?"

He sighed, the smile disappearing from his lips. "Susan," he said, the name loaded. He took a quick sip from his glass, waiting for her to react. She kept her gaze down, her lips pressed firmly together, no emotions allowed to come through.

"It's my sister, isn't it?" Her voice was quieter than it had ever been before.

"Yes," George answered, matter-of-factly.

She knotted her hands together, tightening and loosening her grip. "Has she asked about me at all?"

"Yes, of course. She misses you." He swirled his drink, looking down.

Moments passed, not a word passing between the two. George finished his drink, taking his time sipping the contents. Lucy remained on the couch, in an odd, still state he had never seen before. He waited tenuously for her to break the silence and react once again.

"Can I go with you next week?" she finally spoke.

He set his glass down, wondering how to treat the situation. "Are you sure you want to do that? You know she can't see you."

"I'd given anything to see her again," she declared, passionately.

He tapped his fingers together, thinking. "Can you do that – come whenever you want? Will Aslan allow it?"

"I'll find a way," Lucy replied, setting her jaw. She looked up at George, her hazel eyes misty. Through the cloud of her tears, he could see the fierceness in her eyes, the utter determination.

"Do you think it's best to see her? I mean, it might be too much for you," he cautioned. He didn't want to see her get hurt, not again and not so soon.

"I can handle it, George. I've been through worse things," she firmly answered.

"Are you sure?" he checked one last time.

"Absolutely."

George nodded, knowing that he couldn't stop her. She had made up her mind, and wasn't going to change it for the world.


	18. Chapter 18

Despite Lucy's resolution to visit her sister, when the day came, George found himself making the trip over alone. He waited until the last minute, hoping that she would turn up at his doorstep. Even as he began his trip to Susan's flat, he hoped that Lucy would find him, bump into him once again. After the fifth block he finally discarded the hope, knowing he was on this trek alone.

He walked briskly down the streets, unsure of where Susan's new flat was. She had given him instructions earlier that week, written in her impeccable hand. Despite that, he found himself jogging, making up for the time he lost waiting for Lucy.

He found her flat house, still as stark and decrepit as he remembered. He kept his eyes down as he walked up the stairs. Susan's door was cracked open, the only door ajar on the floor.

He peered inside the door, seeing Susan kneeling in the kitchen, hunched over a box. He knocked lightly, causing her to jump to her feet.

"Oh, George. I was beginning to think you wouldn't come," she replied, walking up to him.

"Of course I would come. I'm a man of my word."

"I made up some dinner, and there's still a bit left. Are you hungry?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I'd feel awful if you came here on an empty stomach," she coaxed.

"I had a large breakfast," he dismissed.

"At least have a drink. You look so sweaty," she suggested. George accepted, and she promptly went to fill a glass.

"How has your first week here been?" George asked.

"Oh, as well as can be expected." She walked back, handing him a glass of water. "I had to learn how to mend a leaky pipe, but other than that, it hasn't been too bad. The commute to work has been rough."

"How far along have you gotten with unpacking everything?" George asked.

"Oh, just a few boxes of my clothes and things. Enough to get me by. Not my trinkets and decorations, though," Susan said. "I have a lot of boxes. Most of them need to go into storage," she said, rubbing her arm. "How has your painting been?"

George flushed up at the thought. "Mr. Maler has done nothing but praise my work and sell all of it. It's so strange."

"I've seen a few of them. You're doing a great job. All of your pictures of Lucy look spot-on,"

"Really? She hasn't sat for a painting in weeks. I've done most of the recent paintings from memory."

"Yes. Even the ones of Narnia – well, they look just as I imagined it did," Susan softly noted. George shifted his weight on his feet. He knew better by now than to press Susan on mentions of Narnia. "Have you wondered why I invited you over to help me, George?" she quietly asked. George felt his stomach clench, unsure of what to say.

"A little," he muttered.

She inhaled deeply, preparing herself. "I couldn't understand how you, someone so unconnected with Lucy, would come in contact with her. Even if she is just a figment of your imagination, you are like my last remaining link to my family. Maybe, somehow…." her voice quivered as she trailed off. "Are you mad that I used you a little?" She looked up at him, her eyes blurred. He wanted desperately to look away, yet he felt that she needed him to look at her, to understand her.

"No." He could never begrudge her on that.

She blinked, shaking her head. "Well, anyways, let's get started. The sooner we start, the sooner it's done."

George saw a slight flutter out of the corner of his eyes, and glanced towards the door. Lucy walked in, her eyes down. She looked up at George and smiled, then saw Susan. Her smiled straightened, tenderness now in her gaze.

"What are you staring at, George?" Susan asked.

"Nothing," he dismissed.

* * *

Lucy felt her heart ache when she saw her sister. She was certainly older, but this was no surprise. She looked like she had when she lived in Narnia, so beautiful and poised. She was the Susan she saw in her memory, not the young girl of war or a frivolous teenager.

She wanted desperately to run up and hug her sister, but she knew better than that. She would pass right through her, just as she had passed through Susan's door. She stayed back instead, settling to be content with watching and observing her sister.

"These are some of my parlor decorations. Just take them out and sit them on the ground. I'll get around to putting them up later," Susan commanded, pointing to a box. George nodded, kneeling beside it. Susan walked down the hallway, out of sight.

"How did you find Susan's place?" he asked as soon as Susan was out of earshot.

"I didn't. I just appeared outside her door, like I always do. I thought it was you flat, until I went inside," she replied, looking over the sparse room.

The painter pulled out a pocket knife, slipping open the packing tape. As he unfolded the flaps, Lucy felt another anxious ache of her heart. There, on top, was her bookends, two ceramic shepherdess figurines.

"Those are mine!" she declared, as George pulled them out of the box. "My grandmother gave them to me when I was thirteen. I'm surprised Susan kept these," she said.

"She kept most of your family's possessions," he replied, as he set a large, old book on the floor.

Lucy swallowed, surprised by the knowledge. "That's so unlike her."

"I think you'd be surprised by what death does to a person, Lucy," George noted.

"Is everything all right out there, George?" Susan wondered. "It sounds like you're talking to someone."

"Just making some observation," he returned, giving Lucy a look. Lucy returned the look with equal disdain.

"Okay. If you need any help, just tell me."

_Even now, she worries about others first, _Lucy sighed. She folded her hands together, keeping her eyes down. George continued to pull out objects, pieces of memorabilia and memories.

"This is Edmund's," she quietly said, pointing to a small, battered leather book. George picked it up and flipped through it, rough sketches of satyrs and fauns and hawks filling the pages. "He would always sit out in the park and draw pictures of Narnia."

_What happened in between now and then, Susan? _she wondered. They sat hunched over the small book, studying the pictures. A picture of Peter, floppy-haired and crowned was on the first page. The next was of Susan, thin and lanky but smiling, with that white, straight smile that Lucy so envied. All of it was there, of them as sovereigns, of their court. She kept it whole.

George closed the book at the last page. He quickly returned to his work, paying no heed to Lucy. Lucy, though, still lingered on the book. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She had never forgotten Susan, true, but she had become a distant figure in her memory, in the back of her mind. They were probably always on Susan's mind, horrible reminders of what once was. Lucy bit her lip, trying to keep the tears in her eyes from overflowing.

_I'm so, so sorry, Susan._

She shook her head, trying to clear it, and straightened in her seat. George was still working away. She got up and started down the hall.

"Lucy," he softly called out, reaching out a warning hand. Lucy turned back and waved him away. She had waited long enough.

The hallway was not long, but narrow and without lighting. Dark shadows hung in the corners, unable to be chased away by even the brightest sunlight. Lucy walked carefully, quietly, looking through the door on her right, a spare room. The wardrobe, which she had found all of those years ago, was stuffed in a corner, this time uncovered. Boxes littered the room. Hunched in front of the wardrobe, shifting through a box's contents, was her sister.

Lucy continued her tread, hoping the old boards wouldn't betray her by creaking. Her heart pounded in her head as her hands grew clammy. She couldn't talk to Susan or touch her, but seeing her was enough.

She finally reached her after what seemed to be an eternity, standing over her. Even while doing something as mundane as unpacking boxes Susan still sat tall, her bearing always regal. Lucy stood there for a few moments, watching her sister go through her things.

Susan was sorting through some of her childhood possessions, examining them and putting them back, almost like she was looking for something. She finished off one box and pulled up another, slitting it open and unfolding the flaps.

_Never wasting a motion or action, so like you,_ Lucy reminisced.

Suddenly, Susan's face lit up. Lucy looked down at the box, and felt a strange twinge of her heart. Piles of their siblings things were at the top. Susan hesitated, looking eagerly over the objects, before plunging in with her thin hands. She picked up a comic, flipping through it quickly.

"I remember that one," Lucy said aloud, laughter in her voice. Susan went to the beginning, reading the first page. Lucy felt her face fall. "Stupid me. I forgot – you can't hear me."

Susan kept her eyes down, reading the page with a smile on her face. She, too, remembered how Edmund would constantly read it, the first comic he ever bought. He would later quote it verbatim, his memorized statements a running gag in their family.

After a few minutes Susan closed the comic, the same sad smile on her face. She placed it aside, turning her focus back to the open box before her. She dived in once again, pulling out one of Peter's schoolbooks, _History of England, 1066-1900. _She blew the dust off the front cover, sneezing in the process.

_Peter carried that book everywhere, _Lucy thought, as Susan turned the book over in her hands. _There's that tea stain on the back cover, when he read it at the table once. Mother gave him such a scolding while he was in mid-sip. Made him drop the cup on the book._

Susan chuckled, the memory resurfacing in her mind as well. She flipped the cover open, studying the bookplate. A dozen names filled it up. The last was Peter's slanted signature. Susan traced it with her finger, the sharp angles smoothed under her hand. She snapped the book closed suddenly and dropped it on top of Edmund's faded comic, heaving a sigh.

"They both miss you," Lucy muttered. "We all do – me, Mother, Father, even Eustace."

Susan set herself once again, reaching into the box. She pulled out a notebook, her make-shift diary from secondary school. "This old thing of mine," Susan dismissed, giving it a quick once-through. She opened to a page, skimming its contents. "Oh, how awful." She closed it and shoved it back into the box, trying to forget. A small slip of paper fluttered out in the process. Lucy felt her heart jump, recognizing it.

"What's this?" Susan wondered, scooping up the faded paper. She unfolded it slowly, words writ in a round script greeting her. Lucy pulled back, knowing already what was on it.

"Lucy?" she declared, hope in her voice. Lucy, though, knew better. She saw, with a heavy heart, her sister's face fall, as Susan realized the note was old, not new and unearthly. Lucy glanced at the note over her sister's shoulder, but she knew already what is in it by heart, hours of wondering what to say imprinted into her mind.

28th December 1943

_Dear Susan, _

_I'm sorry I can't tell you this face to face, but anymore it's hard to talk to you. You don't talk to us anymore, so I don't know how to talk to you. We're sort of out of practice, I guess._

_Ever since the start of school, you've changed. Of course you started caring about how you look – I suppose I'll start doing that, too. But it's not just that. I haven't talked to you in ages, and I miss you. I miss our late night talks and our surprise attacks on Peter and Edmund. Of course, we can't do that now, but who's to say we can't talk?_

_I suppose this is just a plea to say something to me. Let me know how you feel. Does that Robert boy you like so much like you, too? Is secondary school easy, or hard? Do you miss it, too? Have you thought about it any?_

_I hope we can be close again, Susan. I don't like what's happening to you, but I still love you. Please answer back._

Lucy

It was an old, old letter, written during Susan's last year in secondary school. Lucy had written it over the Christmas holiday of that year, slipping it inside the notebook Susan always carried around. She never answered back, and Lucy supposed she must have offended her. Now, here it was, unread and undiscovered. Susan didn't ignore her – she just never found it.

Susan closed the letter and slipped it back inside the diary. Her breath hitched, tight. Lucy looked back at her sister, tears flowing freely from her eyes. Quiet sobs filled the air, as Susan wrapped her arms around herself. She tried desperately to control and suppress her emotions, but tears still managed to flow out.

Lucy felt her throat tighten up. She hated seeing her sister cry. Susan had always tried to keep it in, making the process much more gruesome than it was. It was harsh and unnatural, her breaths staccato and thin. It hurt just listening to her.

Lucy knelt down beside her, wanting nothing more than to stop Susan's crying, than to tell her it was all right. She reached out, knowing that her hand would pass through her shoulder.

"I'm here Susan. It's okay," she murmured. She patted her shoulder. And she didn't go through. She gasped, shocked at her sudden materialness. She felt a bewildered grin come on her face, as Susan turned in her grasp, her body tense.

"George, pl-" Susan started, thinking the painter had gotten too friendly. She stopped, however, when she laid eyes upon her sister. Lucy felt her grin widen."Lu?"

"Oh, yes, Susan!" she cried out, embracing her sister. Susan was shaking, her breathing still sharp, her body tight from another shock. "Yes, it's me!"

"But how can I see you?" Susan asked, pulling away from her sister. She wiped her eyes, sniffling.

"You must have done something right," Lucy said. Susan nodded, her eyes flicking up to the corner. A bright, lovely smile came on her face as she threw her arms around her sister.

"Oh, Lucy, I thought I would never see you again!" she declared

"So did I. Oh, Susan, you have no idea how much I missed you!" She held her sister close, never feeling more happy than she did now.

* * *

Note: Thanks to my beta crazyelf22 for originally giving me the idea of Lucy's letter. I really can't thank you enough for that idea, even a year later.


	19. Chapter 19

Note: Sorry for the long delay! As I said to my reviewers, yes, I have finished the story. There are three more chapters (including this one), and they are all written, edited, and beta'd, just waiting to be posted. I plan on posting one a day over the next three days.

Thanks, as always, to my betas for looking over these last three chapters!

* * *

The feel of tears on her face had become something almost normal to Lucy over the past few months, whether it be sad or happy. She had always been quick to wipe them away, but here and now, she couldn't care less if they stuck to her cheeks or slipped away.

Her sister, however, reached out and wiped the tears away, pure joy on her face. "It's so strange to see you – to touch you – again." Her breath caught in her throat, hitched and ragged.

Lucy sat on the floor, knowing that she was in for hours of catch-up. She waited patiently for Susan to catch her breath. Susan seemed to be in a permanent state of shock, mystified at her sister's sudden appearance. "I still can't believe that this is happening. Is it happening?"

"Oh, it definitely is," Lucy replied. She grasped her sister's hand, reassuring her.

"Lucy, how is this even happening?"

Lucy bit her lip, that piece of the puzzle still elusive. She looked at the diary, her letter peeping out from under the cover. "What were you thinking when you read that letter, Susan?"

Susan sighed, her breath finally calm. "You. Peter and Edmund and Mum and Father. Narnia.

"I had been wondering about it for months, ever since those first drawings George made of you. 'Was it real, was it fake?' I think the letter just broke me down. It had to be real. I couldn't bear it if it wasn't."

"You know, when I first got this mission, I was hoping it would be to help you. In a roundabout way, it sort of was, wasn't it?" Lucy smiled.

"It would be so like him to kill two birds with one stone," Susan said, knowingly. She picked up the notebook and shoved it back into the box.

Lucy sighed, biting her bottom lip in thought. "What happened at secondary school, Susan?" The question had lingered in her mind for years, more than a decade.

Susan turned to her, the laughing smile on her face now gone. "What do you mean?"

"You know. Why did you forget?" Her voice was soft, wary. Even now, she was afraid that Susan would misconstrue her thoughts on Narnia and her separation.

Susan knotted her hands together, sitting pensively. Seconds of silence went by, Susan trying to discern her words.

"I never forgot, Lucy. I just stopped believing," she finally said, her words careful and deliberate.

"It seemed like you forgot. 'Still believing in Narnia?'" Lucy quoted, forgetting her tact.

"I remembered it, Lucy. All of it. I just…" she sighed, looking up at her sister. "In secondary school, you want to forget and disown anything from childhood. You know that, right?"

"Yes, but I never disowned Narnia," Lucy rebutted. Susan patted her sister's hand, and Lucy firmly closed her mouth. She knew from experience when Susan needed her to stop.

"Well, there's two ways to deal with it," Susan explained. "You can do what you, Peter, and Edmund did and keep childhood in check with growing up. Or you can suppress it, pretend it never happens. And that's what I did." She looked over at Lucy, seriousness in her eyes. "If you start saying you don't believe in something outwardly, you start believing it inwardly. One day I realized that Narnia had no significance for me. And I knew I didn't believe."

Susan closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. Lucy wrapped her arm around her sister, leaning her head on Susan's shoulder. She felt tired and weary.

"What is it like for you now, Susan?" Lucy asked, wanting to know everything about her sister.

"It is a nice, calm life," she answered. "I have two jobs, but they aren't too hard. Just a little low on the pay. I've been working at the art gallery that George goes to for a few years. Still at that typist's job, too. I can type faster than some people can talk," she boasted, sitting up. "I had to move here because my old flat was getting too expensive, though."

"No beaux or anything?" Lucy teased. Susan smiled, wistfully.

"I ended it with Robert about a month after the wreck. We just drifted apart. We still talk, but he's moved on, and so have I. Haven't dated anyone in a long time. I know I don't have the extraordinary life I had in Narnia, but I don't mind. It gets a little lonely, but doesn't everyone's life?" She straightened her skirt and pulled up another box. "What about you? How is life in the Great Beyond? Is it anywhere like here?"

"It's like here and Narnia and everywhere in between," Lucy said, watching her sister pull out more trinkets from long ago. "I spend most of my time in New Narnia, but sometimes I go to New Earth. It's just like the old places, except brighter, more real."

"How can it be more real?"

"I can't explain…but you're just aware of everything and anything and it's all lovely. Just as they said it would be."

"Must be wonderful," Susan sighed.

"Well, it is perfect. But it's frozen. Everything is as it was in 1949 in England. Or 1000 in Narnia. It was so strange to come back to Earth and find out that Princess Elizabeth is Queen."

"Her coronation was the big to-do," Susan chuckled, pulling out an old sweater. "So you're thoroughly a part of that world, and not this one."

"Exactly," Lucy replied. "Just as you are a part of this one and not the other one."

Susan folded the sweater up and put it to the side, taking her sister's hand in hers once again. "Lu, will I see you again? I'd hate to have you go as soon as you came."

"I hope so, Susan. Aslan didn't say this was my last time on Earth."

"Well, he never was one for quick reminders," Susan sighed.

"Trust me, he'd let me know," Lucy assured.

They heard a small knock at the door. They turned their gaze to see an astonished George in the doorway.

"Well, I certainly missed something," he declared, baffled.

"Don't worry, George," Lucy replied, getting up and leading him inside, "we'll tell you all about it."


	20. Chapter 20

The sun was warm and bright on that late May day. It was the nicest weather in months, golden and without a cloud in the sky.

"Are you sure we brought enough food?' Susan asked, as she shifted gear in Joan's car once again, driving up a steep country hill.

"Well, I can't eat or drink a thing, so I think five sandwiches, two canteens of tea and a thing of potato salad will be enough for you and George," Lucy replied.

"I'm sure it's fine, Susan," George replied, looking at the picnic basket on his lap. "You've been planning this picnic for two weeks. I think you know what's enough and what isn't." He jolted in his seat, as Susan shifted gears once again.

"Sorry. I'm still trying to get used to driving again," Susan apologized.

"Susan was never very good with driving. Peter and Edmund would call her 'Sticky Shift Susan' when she was first learning," Lucy whispered to George. Susan turned around and gave the two a smoldering look.

"But I never did, of course," Lucy covered. Susan smiled and snapped her head back, concentrating on the road.

"We're almost there, anyway," she replied.

"Good," George muttered under his breath. Lucy gave him a playful jab.

The few weeks since Lucy and Susan's surprise reunion were filled with a few of Lucy's visits, always brief but happy. The two sisters decided as soon as the weather was warm enough a picnic was in order, and today was the fateful day. Susan headed everything, making the meal and borrowing the car. George made sure to contribute, paying for Susan's petrol.

"Ah, here we are!" Susan declared, stopping and breaking the car along the side of the road. A shady field lined with trees stretched before them; an ideal spot. Lucy jumped out of her seat, slipping through the car door.

"I don't think I can ever get used to you just going through things," Susan replied, getting out of her seat and slamming the door behind her.

"It is a little strange, but fun. Don't have to worry about running into doors," she said. She ran out into the field, flopped on her back, and looked up at the sky. George and Susan exchanged smiles, as they each took a handle of the large basket and walked over to Lucy.

"Would you like somewhere shadier?" Lucy asked, sitting up.

"No, I think this will do," Susan replied, unfolding the blanket. Lucy crawled on top of it, settling in for a nap as George and Susan started their meal.

"It must be something to have such an energetic sister as her," George said, handing Susan a canteen of tea.

"She kept us lively, for sure." She looked over at her sister, a soft smile on her face.

"It must be wonderful to see your sister again."

"It's the most wonderful thing in the world."

George took a bite of his sandwich and set it down. He pulled out his sketchpad from his rucksack, spinning his pencil around in his hand. He cast his eyes over the green and gold field. He pressed his pencil to the paper, sprigs of grass blooming up under his hand.

"Inspiration struck?" Susan asked.

"Just a little. I like this field. It reminds me of Narnia. Lucy always said it was a lush and fertile place," he replied, the field growing rapidly under his hand. "Is this anything like Narnia?"

Susan rubbed her arm, thinking intently. "Vaguely. It's very green. But the trees were different. There are some trees in Narnia that you could never imagine. Bright pink and blue fruit, sour tasting nuts, square shaped leaves. There were some oak trees and elm trees, but not as many as there are here."

"Sounds incredible," he sighed, looking at his sketch.

"It isn't as exotic as it sounds," Susan admitted. "Trees aside, this place does look Narnian."

"It is a bit like Lantern Waste," Lucy replied, stretching. She had wakened from her short nap, rubbing her eyes. She sat up, folding her knees close to her.

"No lamp post, though," Susan noted, finishing off her salad. Lucy smiled at the memory. Seeing how deep in a trance he was, she picked up her head and turned to Susan.

"That tree looks like the perfect tree to climb," Lucy noted, looking at the elm behind them. Susan turned back, studying it, before looking at her sister, a wide smile on her face.

"Absolutely perfect," Susan replied. Lucy snatched up her sister's hand and ran.

"Come on, Su!" she declared, pulling her sister along.

"Lucy, wait!"

Lucy halted in front of the tree, breathless and giggling. She reached up and grabbed a knot, found her footing, and hoisted herself up with ease. Years of tree climbing on Earth and Narnia left her limber and able to scale anything with ease, skirt or not. She settled on the first branch, thick and long, well above the ground.

"Well, are you coming up?" she asked her sister, Susan still down on the ground.

"Lu, you know I was never as good as you with climbing trees," Susan said, grasping the knothole. She found her footing with some difficulty, getting a few scrapes and bumps along the way.

"Oh, come on!" Lucy declared, reaching down. She pulled her sister up. Susan settled next to her, her breath heavy.

"Oh, I'm so out of practice with this," Susan declared, leaning a hand on her sister's shoulder. Lucy wrapped her arm around Susan's waist, laughing.

"It never stopped you in Narnia!" she smiled. "Remember that one time when Peridan came by unexpectedly, and he found you up in the oak tree, throwing acorns to the squirrels?"

"It took me ages to convince him I was a proper lady," Susan laughed. "Is he there in New Narnia, with all of you?"

"Oh, yes. Everyone you could imagine is there. It's like old times, Susan."

Susan sighed and looked out over the field, plucking some leaves absentmindedly from the branches. "And it's lovelier than before, right?"

"It's like someone took the colors and brightened them to the fullest degree."

"And every day is beautiful and perfect," Susan sighed, weariness in her tone. "It's all too tempting, Lu. You probably think that Earth is awful compared to Narnia."

"Nonsense, Susan!" she declared. "Narnia's lovely, but it doesn't have you, or George." She stretched out her hand, winding her fingers around Susan's.

Susan sighed, leaning against the trunk of the tree. Lucy looked at her, taking all of her in. She knew, with a painful stab of her heart, that it would be a long time before she would see Susan again.

Susan finally sat up, looking back at the field. George sat a few yards away, just out of reach. She plucked an acorn from the branch next to her, perfectly poised in her hand.

"Do you think I could hit him from here?" Susan asked, eyeing and calculating the distance.

"You did have the best aim out of all of us." A mischievous look played across Lucy's face. Susan took aim, pulled her arm back, and chucked the acorn. The small seed flew through the air, arching gracefully in the sky, before landing squarely on George's head. The painter, drawn out of his trance, turned around and stared at the sisters, shaking his fist.

"Oh, good shot, Su!" Lucy declared, squeezing her sister's hand.

"I did that once in secondary school, and all of the girls thought I was so childish. They were such prudes." She laughed. Lucy smiled, swinging her legs on the branch. They sat together, enjoying the speckled sun and birdsong.

"Are you going away soon? Like before, when we left Narnia?" Susan asked, frankly. Lucy turned to her sister, still so poised and calm, even surrounded by tree limbs and leaves.

"Yes. I think this is my last time here," Lucy said, the knowledge heavy on her mind. She had known for a while that she would be leaving Earth behind forever, her job now fully done.

"I knew you would. Aslan never keeps people long beyond their time needed," Susan said, her voice so painfully frank. But it held no sorrow, just honesty and acceptance at a sad fact. She reached out and held her sister's hand. "But I'll see you. Maybe soon, Maybe not."

Lucy nodded, a sad smile on her face. "Susan, can you promise me something?" Lucy

"Anything."

"Can you watch George for me when I'm gone? I…I want him to be in good hands. I…I'll miss him so when I'm gone," Lucy said, her voice thick. She felt tears sting her eyes at the thought.

"Of course, Lucy," Susan nodded, understanding.

Lucy sighed, swinging her legs once again over the edge. She closed her eyes, wanting to remember every small detail of the day.

"Oi, Lucy, Susan!" George's gruff voice broke her reverie. She looked down, the painter standing in the field, waving his arms. Susan and Lucy looked exchanged glances, small smiles on their faces. They tightened their hands' grip, closed their eyes, and jumped below, landing clumsily. They sat, laughing, dusting the dirt off their arms and checking for bruises.

"I think there was a reason why we pledged off doing that the second year of our reign," Susan noted, getting to her feet. She reached out and helped her sister to her feet. Lucy jumped up and locked arms with her sister, starting back to the field.

George stood with his sketch pad close to his chest, an intent smile on his face.

"What are you hiding in there?" Lucy joked, tapping the pad. "You interrupted our very nice sit."

"This," he said, flipping the cover and displaying a detailed sketch. Two women, both beautiful and in the prime of their lives, sat in thrones, crowns and rich clothes decorating their personas. A thick gash struck across the two, a wayward pencil mark.

"Oh George, what happened here?" Lucy asked, examining the mark.

"This did," George replied, holding up an acorn. "Not so keen on this joke anymore, are you?" He tossed the seed to Susan, who caught it with a blush. "Do you two want to sit down for me so I can try this again?"

"Oh, sure," Lucy replied, sitting down on the blanket. She stuck a regal pose, trying to muster up all of her regal bearing. George laughed, as Susan took her place next to her sister. George took up his pencil and paper, sitting down and propping his pad up against his knees.

"Do I need to smile again?" Lucy asked, bearing her whites.

"No, I think I have your smile memorized," George said, his hand arching across the paper.

The three sat in silence, the minutes ticking away. A few jokes and words were exchanged, but little was said during that afternoon. Lucy tried her hardest to remember the day and the feeling, the sun on her face and George before her, his dark kind eyes and lovely, rare smile.

The sun hung low in the sky when George was done, the sketch far lovelier and detailed than before. The two sisters were as they had been years ago, regal and grand, bright beacons for a country.

"I haven't been that old in years," Lucy said, examining the sketch. "I sort of miss being that old. One can only handle being pubescent for so long."

"At least you won't ever grow old, then or now," Susan noted. Her sketch looked, not older and imagined, but herself, the beginnings of wrinkles and age coming on her.

"Oh, don't worry, Susan," Lucy tried to reassure. "Professor Kirke is practically a young man now." Susan stifled a laugh, the thought ridiculous.

Lucy handed the sketch back, and felt, with a small prickle of dread, the familiar tug.

_Oh Aslan, why so soon? _

"Well, judging by the sun, I suppose we better starting packing up for home," George said, stuffing his art supplies into his rucksack. Lucy looked over at Susan, her eyes forlorn. Susan's shoulders dropped, knowing all too well what was up ahead for Lucy.

"I don't think I'll be going back with you, George," Lucy quietly replied.

"Oh, so soon? Well, hopefully it won't be too long before I see you again." He started packing away the utensils, giving them a quick rub clean.

"I don't think you will, George."

The painter stopped, looking up at her. His brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Aslan told me that it would be my last day today."

He swallowed, the confusion still on his face. "When were you planning on telling me this?"

"Oh George, I didn't want to tell you right away because it would have spoiled all of today. Everyone would have been so sad and upset. I couldn't stand it," Lucy said. "Today was absolutely lovely because it was just another day."

"Well, I would have liked some time to adjust to this change," George said.

"You certainly got more of a warning out of Aslan than we did," Susan noted.

"Are you leaving soon?" he asked, expectant.

"Sometime. Probably before you and Susan leave." She felt another ominous tug. She laced the grass through her fingers, trying to stay rooted to the ground.

George pursed his lips. Lucy knew that she didn't have the best track record when it came to the truth and George, but she hoped that she wouldn't leave him bitter and upset. "Why so soon?" he finally questioned.

"Because my job on Earth is done. You and Susan believe, and that is all Aslan needed out of me. He never lets people outlast their usefulness."

"He's an efficient sort, isn't he?" George joked, half-heartedly. Lucy cracked a sympathetic smile.

"It's not the last you'll ever see of me though," she said, trying to offer some glimmer of hope. "If you keep the faith, you'll see me. In the end."

"And you still have me," Susan added. "I may be no Lucy, but we do have her in common, to talk about and share."

The painter looked over the two sisters, still wary. Lucy felt the tug grow, quick and gentle. It was soon, she knew. "I won't forget you, trust me, George." She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. And she didn't let go, as the tug claimed her, pulling away. She gave one last look to her sister, tears in their eyes. She tried blinking them away, but still they flowed, even as she found herself alone, back in Narnia.

* * *

A small trickle of tears came from George's eyes as he felt Lucy's small hand on his shoulder. He sighed, knowing her touch too well. He turned around, wanting one last look of the golden girl.

He turned, to see Susan's golden, misty eyes instead, her hand the only one on his shoulder.


	21. Chapter 21

It was Thursday again.

But Thursday had long since lost its meaning to George. It had, over the years, become a day like any other day, whether it be Sunday, Tuesday, or even Friday.

Today he had gone into town, like so many years ago, and with the same purpose; to sell his paintings and sketches. And he still had some shaky, sloppy sketches under his arm, but he returned with his portfolio lighter than it had been before. He was dressed the same, the October weather still brisk and chilly.

But he was no longer a young man. His youth had run away a long time ago, with the girl he had met fifty years ago. Even then, he had started to lose the claim to youth. Age had come slowly, gradually, first with his hair, then his skin, and then his inner body, to his joints and mind, until age had taken him completely into its waiting arms.

He had embraced it, resigning to its inevitability. He knew, unlike so many others, that he would get his youth again soon enough. Still, there were nights when he found himself wishing he could go back to the days when his hands would not tremble, when he could paint with ease for hours and never worry about his joints.

He stepped off the bus, at the corner of the two streets his house was nestled in. He walked slowly, calmly to his house, a small whitewashed cottage he had bought years ago, the product of years of painting. He had long since left London and Finchley behind, his flat house soundly demolished with the rest of his poor artist's life. He loved his small house, the first real piece of property he had ever owned.

He sighed as he approached the steps up to the door. They were a small feat compared to the stairs he had to climb up to get to his room, but they always were such a painful precursor. He inhaled deeply as he braced himself, pulling himself up each step, his legs heavy. He fumbled with the keys in his pocket, before finding the correct one and slowly opening the door.

The door creaked into silence, no pet or person to greet him. He had lived for years as he always had: alone. He had never been bothered by it, accepting the silence as a friend long ago. He had dated a few women, but each of them never lasted long. Some said he only had eyes for the golden girl of his paintings, known only as Lucy.

Whether he did or not ,though, remained a mystery. He never told the world who Lucy was, even as he became the darling of the art world. Only a few knew or recognized the girl so prominently featured in his work, a girl who was at once an ethereal being and a regal queen.

He set his battered, old portfolio down on the table, heaving a great sigh. It had grown heavier and heavier in his arms over the years. He rubbed his left arm, sore and prickling from the effort.

_What I need is some tea,_ he thought, walking to the cupboards and pulling out a dull copper kettle. He filled it with water and set it on the stove, turning the knob. He had long since converted to an electric stove, ever since he had developed a slight tremor. Today it seemed especially bothersome, as he splashed water all about the counters.

"Oh, bother," he cursed under his breath, wiping up the water. He pulled out a tea bag, setting it next to his cup. He looked out the kitchen window, the sun low and orange in the sky. He thought back to the golden day he had long ago with the sisters, the memory bittersweet in his mind.

For years after that day, George had spent his time painting pictures of that girl and the strange land she described, never naming it, only calling it 'Lucy's land." When asked why he would never reveal the name, he would simply reply that he didn't have the liberty to do so. It was Lucy's land, and only she could reveal the name.

Of course, this would raise question from everyone who she was. But George would never say who she was, either. Just that she would reveal herself to everyone when their time would come, further adding to the mystery surrounding him.

George laughed at the thought of being mysterious. In his mind he was nothing more than straightforward, as easy to read as the alphabet. But in the art world he was a dark figure, a recluse who drew bright pictures of a mythical land and had an imagination even Lewis Carroll would be envious of.

_But the public are such fools, _George laughed. He had declined a few simple questions, yet that was enough to make him a gloriously enigmatic figure.

His kettle whistled, shrill scrapes breaking his thoughts. He pulled it off, pouring it slowly, carefully into his cup. A few splashes ended up outside his cup, though he had managed to get most of it in. He dropped his tea bag in, letting the bag stew. He rubbed his arm, trying to get rid of the persistent pain.

He had lost his luster over the years with his age, but he didn't mind. There was little to tether him to earth. The promise of Lucy had always been in his mind, and had become more tantalizing than ever. He had no family left, officially – Aunt Shannon had died years ago, five years after his Lucy's departure. Shannon had died of a stroke, quickly and quietly in her sleep. He had arranged her funeral and affairs, sold most of her possessions and was left none of her fortune. She had passed from life as she had lived it; restrained and unremarkable, not sensational lest the neighbors would talk.

He picked up his cup, taking a small sip, lest he burn himself. It was strong, warm slipping down his throat. He walked over to his portfolio, flipping through the few sketches left. They weren't good, but certainly better than the ones he had first given Mr. Maler all those years ago. He sighed, noting another person who had gone and left him with one less tether.

Maler's Art Gallery no longer existed, gone for some thirty years. Mr. Maler had died some ten years after Lucy's fateful trips, leaving his gallery to a younger colleague. The colleague was a good man, to be sure, who knew the business well and had good intentions. Nevertheless, he eventually sold the gallery after twenty years as head, the small gallery long since floundering. George had, at that point, gained enough notoriety to not bother with a gallery, yet he still found himself sad at the thought of his second home empty and forgotten.

He closed the portfolio, took his tea and journey to the stairs, knowing it would be a long, long journey up them. He gritted his teeth and bared it, vowing for the twentieth time that week to move downstairs.

Five minutes later, he crossed the last step, his legs heavy and his arm even sorer than before. He felt exhaustion consume his body, his arm sore and slack. He pushed his door open and staggered to his arm chair, ready to settle in for the night.

The sun was now just a faint reminder on the hill, shadows covering his room. He set his teacup down on the nightstand, pulled a blanket over his trembling, cold body, and closed his eyes. He rested them, knowing that it would be a while before he would really go to sleep.

He must have fallen asleep, as he found himself waking up to the sounds of two women talking.

_Damned followers, how did they get in here?_ he cursed, feeling his eyes slowly open. His eyes were blurred, cloudy with sleep. He saw a bright, yellow spot before him, and he wondered if it was the sun, and he had already slept through the night.

"About time you woke up," a familiar voice greeted him. George rubbed his eyes, his hands steady. He felt his heart leap at the sight before him.

"Lucy! And Susan," he said, turning to the dark-haired woman on his right. "Oh, am I dreaming?"

"Far from it," Susan replied, smiling. She was younger, younger than he ever remembered her. Lucy looked as she had all those years ago, her yellow coat pulled tight about her. The two stood before him, bright against the dim early morning light.

"Oh, Susan, I never forgot what you said. I just met your son, James, today. He misses you terribly," George babbled.

"Good. I knew I picked the right man to be his godfather," Susan said. "How are he and Karen doing?"

"Wonderfully. Apparently little Peter's engaged."

"I don't think he's so little anymore," Lucy joked. The two sisters laughed, as George sat, taking the two in. They were every bit as regal and lovely as before. He could have sat there forever, talking with just the two of them.

"Are you ready, George?" Susan asked, stepping towards him. He swallowed, knowing all too well what she meant. He looked towards Lucy, a comforting smile on her face. He would have followed her to the end of days. He nodded.

The two sisters held out their hands, helping him up. He felt steady, limber, painless for the first time in years. He looked about the room, at his old Narnian paintings, and at a small portrait of Lucy, looking every bit like her. He turned back to the genuine girl, and took her outstretched hand. She took Susan's, too, and headed to the door.

They walked, one step at a time, down the stairs, quick and easy. Susan reached out and opened the front door, their only obstacle. Before them was the stretch of road, long and empty all the way towards the horizon. At the end was the sun, rising bright and lovely before them.

They took their first steps, trepid at first, them more sure, as they walked away. George felt a wave of strange wave wash over him, as he realized it would be the last he would ever see of Earth. He wanted one last look, one look of the only world he had seen before. He tried to turn around, to catch one last glimpse, but Lucy pulled him forward.

"Don't look behind," she said, soft yet firm. "You'll miss what's up ahead."

And together they walked away, into the sun, where the shadows were chased away, and there was only light.

* * *

Wow. I cannot believe it's over. As it stands, this is my longest completed work of writing, and I'm so glad to have such a great response to it.

Thanks to everyone who has looked at this story over the past year, and for being so patient for updates. Seriously, just even seeing that people were reading it made me happy. Thanks also to anyone who has subscribed or favorited my story, as well. It was a little encouragement that meant so much. And thanks, of course, to the many people who reviewed this story. Special thanks to Miniver, who has left lovely reviews from the beginning, and EWCOM and where the wind blows, for being such constant reviewers. (I think EWCOM has reviewed every chapter of the story).

And last, but certainly not least, thank you to my betas, crazyelf22 and Jeff. You guys have helped me so much over the past year, giving encouragement and good opinions, and helping fix some flaws in the story. I really, really can't thank you enough.

I have a few things on the back-burner right now, including a Christmas one-shot, a cross-over piece, and a long work involving Polly. Hopefully I'll be steadily posting over the next few months. In the meantime, I plan to read and review some more fic. Also, I have put together an appendix to this story on my Live Journal. It's full of extras, like character sketches and rough drafts of certain scenes, and other odds and ends. The link is: http: / bottleofsmoke19. livejournal. com/8614. html (except remove the spaces, and add an extra backslash after 'http:'), or the link can be found on my profile.

Once again, thank you to everyone who has seen this story along for the past year. It's mean a ton to me. Til next time,

Bottle


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